Gardening by Myself. By Anna Bartlett Warner (1827-1915) New York, A. D. F. Randolph & Co. [1872]. Color illustrations by Mary Mark Ockerbloom, 2007.
These color photographs of Anna Warner's house and gardens on Constitution Island, NY, were taken on August 23, 2007, by Mary Mark Ockerbloom. We were able to tour Anna Warner's home thanks to the Constitution Island Association. They have worked hard to maintain the house and restore the gardens so that they are similar to their appearance in Anna Warner's lifetime. Access to the island is limited, so be sure to check with them about availability of tours if you are interested in visiting.
This online edition is dedicated to
Janet Catherine Mark (1924-)
My Mother
From whom I learned my love of gardening.
GARDENING BY MYSELF.
BY
ANNA WARNER.
| Nor does he govern only, or direct, |
| But much performs himself. |
| THE TASK. |
NEW YORK:
ANSON D. F. RANDOLPH & CO.,
770 BROADWAY, COR. 9TH ST.,
1872.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1872, by
ANSON D. F. RANDOLPH & CO.,
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D.C.
EDWARD O. JENKINS,
PRINTER AND STEREOTYPER,
20 North William Street, N. Y.
Portrait of Anna Warner, Warner House, Constitution Island.
GARDENING by oneself is so lovely, and so easy a thing, that I would fain have everybody try it. Do not mistake me: you cannot do everything without glass and gardeners, and that convenient helper popularly called "The Bank of England." But you can do so much, that you may well be content; and even be able to listen quietly to some one giving an unlimited order for priceless carnations, what though the thought comes to you (as it did to me):
"I had but three, my own seedlings, and a grub eat up one of them."
The thought that there are two left, will be very sweet to you, even then and there Touchwood's label is not the worst that can be put upon a plant:
"A poor thing, sir, but mine own."
But there is no need of raising poor things; and you can hardly imagine, beforehand, how much dearer such friend-flowers are, than any, even the most splendid, mere acquaintances introduced by a professed gardener.
I wish everybody had a garden, and would work in it himself, – the world would grow sweeter-tempered at once. Why you may deal with one great florist after an other, (I know, for I have dealt with a good many) and you will find nothing but courtesy and pleasant words from the beginning to the end. No urging you to take what you do not want, no clipping the measure of what you buy; but on the contrary, your insignificant little orders are rounded out with unexpected treasures. As if the florists could not bear even to think of empty gardens, while theirs were so full; or else had a sort of gentle sympathy for the people who expect to live upon fifty cents' worth of flowers for a whole year.
I think it is Mr. Biglow who solaces himself with "More last words." I know there are many I might say. There are flower names you will look for here, and not find. The fair faces of my Campanula Lorei, look at me reproachfully even now, from a distance; with the pink Eucharidiums, just unfolding their fresh colour. And there is Viola Cornuta, and my superb new Gen. Jacqueminot rose. But if I mentioned everything, when should I have done? Not till my book was altogether too big for you to buy.
SHAHWEETAH, June 28, 1872.
Anna B. Warner Memorial Garden.
| Pines, ef you're blue, are the best friends I know, |
| They mope an' sigh an' sheer your feelin's so. |
| – Lowell. |
|
| HANGING BASKET OF COCOA-NUT SHELL, WITH KENILWORTH IVY. |
I should say, to begin, that I do not mean by this the enchanted regions of professed gardeners, – neither of those people who are blessed with that very useful, troublesome, self-willed appendage to a flower garden. My Fairyland does not spring up under glass, nor out of money, nor with "facilities." For people having all these I do not write, – nor for "young florists," intending to make the business their profession. Mr. Henderson's book may instruct them. They must begin all right, and work on by line and rule.
But the people for whom I write begin anywhere, – with the first flower or seed they happen to pick up; and then work on – anyhow! That is, not heedlessly, nor neglectfully, but as they can. Therefore not by line and rule, which is often an impossibility; but in some strange wildwood way making a path through difficulties, and reaching their Fairyland "cross lots." Well they know what I mean, when I say that if you have not a syringe you must water plants through your fingers! Or if they do not, I can tell them and they'll work it out.
With some people flowers are a fixed fact, a necessity; and thence follows endless pains-taking, tireless patience, and wonderful success. They are the people for whom "everything grows."
Do you see that old brown house by the roadside? – guiltless of everything but weather paint? – and in the window an old rough box? Look now at the magnificent "lambrequin" of sweet peas, which drapes the window and almost hides the box in which they grow. There are no new varieties, it is true, – neither "striped, from Ceylon," nor scarlet, surnamed, "invincible." "Painted ladies," every one of them, but such a solid phalanx of their bonny faces I never saw.
Do you see this other house; low, unpretending? Two poor men live there – bachelor brothers; daily workers for their daily bread. There is no show of anything about the house, inside or out, with just one exception. Each side the front door, like a supporter of its humble dimensions, stands an immense hydrangea; with heads of bloom that can rival anything. And of the rare colour too (whichever that is! – I'm always as puzzled as the old woman about her bluing) – the colour that everybody tries for, and few can induce. All the other hydrangeas in the village are in their native rose, but for the two old brothers the blossoms are always blue. (I know I'm right now!) They have their secret, as to the how and the why.
Next door to a small city church that I have seen, stands the Sunday School house; and in the third floor of this lives the sexton. His little windows look down upon city yards – poor specimens, some of them; – and only the eastern lookout makes his windows bright
Across one of the windows, trained from side to side till the whole is covered with a net work of twigs and leaves and blossoms, a honeysuckle stretches its pretty sprays, growing contentedly in a pot on that third story window-sill. Or if not contentedly yet hiding its discontent in the most successful endeavors to brighten the small world in which it lives. I said it was the sexton's window – but I am quite sure the honeysuckle belongs to his wife.
In a poorer home than this, in a tenement garret in London, stands an ivy; its roots nourished in four flower-pots, its leaves curtaining the small windows, with their upper surface laid close against the glass. The old human inmate of the room "keeps herself happy by reading her Bible and loving her ivy!" – The plant and its poor owner seeking the light together, and finding it – even in a tenement house – with faces "pressed close to the glass."
Yes, for such people, "everything grows." Their loving skill – for I doubt if real love can long be ignorant – has a power of coaxing which finds its way to the very heart of a cutting, and makes seeds yield up their treasures with a precision and promptness quite distracting to ordinary mortals, – those easy, hopeful, blunderers who plant sweet peas on the top of the ground rather late, and petunias an inch deep, rather early; and comfortably bestow all their failures at the seedman's door.
But real love has other skill than this; and can (somehow) draw gold-value from a purse of coppers, and fetch double-distilled pleasure out of a solitary plant. Did ever Mr. Vick's twenty acres of spring bloom smell as sweet, I wonder, as a single fair little buff hyacinth that was given me long ago? when it was my only one, and not even the small amount of capital it represented could have been spent by me for such a luxury? Fairyland? – why that hyacinth shone like Aladdin's palace, and was a new surprise every time we looked at it.
Success will follow love. Didn't I beat Mr. Vick with his own seed two years ago, and raise green-edged petunias (P. marginata) that were bigger "by a handful," as the boys say, than the one he has put in his new Chromo for 1871? But to begin:
January 1st, – and a bright clear day. No snow on the ground, no fixed ice in the river. Yet not much work for my hands out-of-doors. Roses were pruned and vines tied up when the leaves fell; and now I can find only a little mending here and there. We have had furious winds lately, and some few things have broken loose; and the covering of my tulips and hyacinths is torn and ragged at the edges, with a clear hole in spots. They must have a new spread of leaves, without waiting for the snow blanket which may not come.
In-doors there is not much plant work either. A few bulbs are pushing up their shoots, and so are candidates for water and warmth; but while I was away, they were all left in a room which grew dangerously cold for anything but bulbs, and of course they made slow progress. I should except my double Roman P. narcissus, which ran up and up as if it were trying to reach the sun that way. It is coming into bloom now, just opening out; but ran itself too much out of breath to recover fairly.
Other plants crowd together on stands and tables or wherever they can get a place, waiting wearily for the spring. There are my seedling geraniums, a dozen or more, – with my especial variegated pet; and abutilon mesopotamicum, given by one friend, and a pretty little nameless green vine from another. Then there is a small crowd of petunias and verbenas from last fall's cuttings, – fine kinds, that I did not wish to lose. Then various plants struck in my sick room last winter, from baskets of greenhouse beauties brought by kind friends. French lavender, and a tea rose, and two or three specimens of Solanum jas. A wee Cape jessamine too, which as it hasn't died through the summer, may perchance take heart and grow – sometime. Then there is my Chinese primrose. It was given to me with the kind wish to help fill the place of some frosted plants of mine; but has never done itself much credit. When I had borne with this state of things for a while, I set to work to find out the reason; and if Mr. Henderson's directions for growing Chinese primroses could be exactly reversed, surely in this case they had been! A glazed pot; solid clay soil that would retain every new drop of water that ever came to it, without letting go one of the old; and large earth-worms enough to make one think of an Indian juggler with his snakes. I'm not partial to earth-worms. They are one little drawback to the pleasure of gardening.
The plants in general looked very peaked when I came home; first from being shut up in a cold room, but much more from being shut up in a hot one, where they were well nigh killed with kindness. I bear freezing so much better than roasting, myself, that I gave them full sympathy. Water and light and cool air, with a little fresh soil and clipping, have improved their appearance; and as the room to which I first removed them is still too warm and dry with its stove-heat, I have devoted one window and a large slice of our little study to flower stands, and the rest retire into private life in a room of no particular temperature; there to "worry through" the winter, as somebody (I think Mr. Henderson) calls it.
This being the time of year which the cactus tribe choose for their long sleep, I have left my two plants of that persuasion on a tall cabinet in the warmest place I can find; giving them no water at all, except just enough now and then to keep the earth from turning to absolute dust.
Except among the bulbs, you cannot expect many flowers at this season. At a temperature of less than sixty degrees, few house-plants will bloom; so florists say; and the rooms which come up to that in cold weather, are almost certain to be too close and dry for the plants. If buds form, they will probably drop off in a very disappointing way. Therefore keep your pets in good health, and yourselves in good patience. When we are able to build a little winter addition to our Fairyland, in the shape of a tiny greenhouse where we can syringe and shower and "make a muss" to our heart's content, then we may hope for roses at midwinter. For you see then we can afford to get the syringe too. And our greenhouse will not be a costly affair, with all the modern improvements; but a lovely little bow window opening out of our sitting room or breakfast room. Glass on all sides; glazed doors also dividing it from the room; and looking if possible full to the south or south-east. In cold weather with the glass doors open, and window shutters to help at night, and the sun to help by day, your greenhouse will keep warm with little trouble. And as the sun gains power, closed doors or an open window will do all the regulating. And your sitting room will be pretty as it never was before. Neither would the cost be so very much. Why a single "switch" (of the right colour) would do the work!
Meanwhile, pending all this, give your plants clean faces whenever your can. If there is a shower bath in the house, set it running – not quite full on – and pass your plants rapidly through the fall, one by one. If not, draw a cloth or paper tight round and over the top of the pot, to keep the earth in, and dip each plant head first in a basin of clean fresh water. You can hardly think how either process will revive them.
And now the catalogues begin to come in, – at a good time, when there is little other work to do. What are you going to plant? It is not very safe to make lists for other people, therefore get a good catalogue and choose for yourself. Study too, at the same time with names and colours, the nature of your soil and climate; for though as Education once said to Nature, "something may be done by taking pains enough," yet it is well to know what pains will be needful. But especially make yourself well acquainted with the catalogue, so as to leave no room for regrets.
Catalogues! Catalogues! – what bewildering things they are! How they do pile up epithets and suggestions and images; heaping "lovely blues," and "creamy whites," and "intense reds," and "clear yellows," and "rosy pinks," and "desirable contrasts," just to turn the heads of people who cannot get everything. There is a saying in the family that where other people read novels, I study catalogues – and it is a good deal so. But it's a matter requiring the most profound study!
Remember, in passing, that some of these catalogue colours will fade, – that cannot be helped. What certain florists call "blue," you put down as "purplish," – what they call "black," is to your eyes only invisible red. Especially is this true of novelties, and the foreign descriptions of the same; which are generally got up very "regardless of expense."
What shall I get? How shall I have most show and sweetness with the least cost? For what I can afford, must come even before what I want. One novelty will buy from five to ten old favourites: yet the novelties are so enticing! Not the millionaire class – five dollars or so per seed – but those that are at least within sight of my purse. One or two of them I must have just for zest and flavour. But shall I try again some few that have thwarted me before? Shall I plant those that do not quite relish my soil and climate, or only the good little flowers that dress for themselves under all circumstances?
Plenty of these there must be, at all events. Phlox and verbenas and sweet peas and stocks and asters and pansies and balsams; with mignonette everywhere, and sweet alyssum in spots; and sweet scabious and sweet sultan for the scent of present fragrance and the perfume of old times. Poppies, too, for we were close friends once, when they were taller – or I was shorter! – peers in the old spring-time, frequenting the gravel walks together, and nearer of a height than we shall ever be again. And I find (curiously enough) that other people seem to have the same sort of recollections, only they have not been true to their early friendships. I have seen one and another stop by my poppy beds with a little cry of pleasure that came near being pain.
"Oh, poppies!" they say, – and hang over the little red faces with a sort of tender interest which poppies in themselves have not often the credit of inspiring. No – they have gone out of fashion, – even the great double many coloured and many-named poppies; and I doubt if one of the happy possessors of glass and gardeners would have the moral courage to admit a poppy upon his grounds, much as he may enjoy meeting the family at the house of a mutual friend. But our Fairyland has a place for everything we want!
Therefore have as many pinks as you can find room for; from the old, old, pink-faced, sweet-breathed, double, fringed beauties, that bed themselves in a mat of blue-green foliage, and make up for blooming but once a year, by being the fairest things there are when they bloom. From these, through all the varieties you can, up to the stately "Heddewigs" and "diadems." By the way it is simple folly to call a pink anything but a pink. They're no more like 'dianthus,' than I am like a cricket. To quote Mr. Weller – "Wot's the use o' callin' a young 'ooman a 'wenus,' or a 'griffin?'"
Get some carnation seed too, that the plants may be growing for next year. They will not bloom this. And petunias are sure to be useful, for they will thrive and be splendid in any season and in any place.
Then how beautiful last year was my Gaillardia Josephus! I must have it again. And the little blue asperula – a novelty of last year, as the catalogues say – was pretty enough, in spite of dry weather, to have another chance. Tropeolum King of the Tom Thumbs, and T. King Theodore, have also been very brilliant. I waited three years, I believe, for King Theodore to come down within reach of my purse, but have taken much comfort in him since.
Shall I give one more trial to Abronia? – little witch! – so highly recommended, so generally praised, but (for me) so intractable? We have been at issue for at least three seasons, and yet I don't like to be worsted! Shall I try conclusions once more with my favorite lupius, which (by way of being singular) seem not to like this Island of Shahweetah. Shall I be tempted by a lily, "well preserved for spring planting," while yet I know that fall is the time? How many tuberoses can I afford? – and shall I indulge myself with a new gladiolus?
There – I have brought you into a labyrinth, and can do nothing but leave you to find your way out alone.
"Pry into the little hollows, among rocks and tree-roots."
| Brilliant hopes, all woven in gorgeous tissues, |
| Flaunting gaily in the golden light; |
| Large desires, with most uncertain issues, |
| Tender wishes, blossoming at night. |
| – Longfellow. |
HAVE your seeds come? Mine have. Such a delightful package of little packages! – each full of mystery, each rustling gently with promise. And O, what mystery it is!
Look into your little paper of "mixed petunia" seed, – holding your breath the while; for the grains are so fine that you could breathe them all away, so small and light that they are hard to manage, with the best of care. There they lie in a small dark heap, each seed just like its fellow seed to look at, yet with a whole different existence in each. In one is wrapped the glory of a full crimson flower, three inches across; in another lies perdu a blossom of pink, with a broad green border; hid away in the next brown grain of dust is a white blossom, all striped and flamed with purple; while the next will open out upon the world in rose colour, with a pure white throat. One will be plain edged, and one will be fringed; one will be plain-coloured, and the next full of spots and veins, and the next as double as a rose; and the one little grain that stays fast in the corner of the bag, holds, perhaps, some new variety, now lost to the gardening world!
Take a peep in among my pansy seed. Can you guess which little brown flat speck will give you "sky-blue," or "violet," or the "king of the blacks"? Can you tell among the phlox seed Leopoldii from Radowitzii, or a "brilliant scarlet" from a "deep blood purple"? Which canna seed will give you a "brilliant red" spike of flowers, and which a "superb yellow?" Which of these portulaca seeds, looking now like mites of quicksilver, will open out into "gold colour?" which into "crimson?" which into "white-striped?" Each little grain of this dust which we call seed, has in itself both root and leaf and profusion of bloom; and the particular mite which I have just brushed off from the tip of my finger, may be the finest "possibility" in all the lot!
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| MAPLE SEED CUT TO SHEW THE FOLDED PLANT. | PLANT TAKEN OUT. |
O never ending wonder and mystery of Gen. 1: 10, 12! – "Whose seed is in itself, after its kind." O standing "miracle of flowers and trees!" – so perfect as to be "very good" in the eyes of the Lord himself," – it will never cease to be marvellous in our eyes.
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| |
| MAPLE, WITH SEED LEAVES UNFOLDED. | MAPLE, SHEWING THE FIRST PAIR OF LEAVES. |
Now what will you do with these little packets of wonders? To begin with, go over your list, catalogue in hand, to note carefully which kinds of seed must be sown in the house, and which must be left for the open border; as well as those that may be planted there, if it is more convenient. For some flowers need transplanting, and some will not like it; and some, if they are not sown early, will take a year to bloom. Separate your seeds first according to this rule. Then from the house-set, take out the hardiest, and let them have attention first; because very tender things must be set out so late, that they need not be sown very early. Except canna, and datura, and a few others of which the catalogue will tell you, that are shy of blooming the first year, and so must be got in as early as possible.
First of all, then, put your canna seeds in scalding water, and leave them in a hot place (not boiling) for twelve hours or so, while you attend to other matters.
What soil have you got for planting? If you made no preparation last fall, you cannot have "rotted sods," nor some other excellent things that need time and care to make them good; yet if you live in the country, the want can be easily made up. In town, the shortest way is to buy sixpence worth of prepared soil at the nearest greenhouse. In the country, take basket and trowel and go off to the woods – deciduous woods, not evergreen, if you have the choice – and there pry into the little hollows, among rocks and tree-roots. Scrape off last year's leaves which lie on top, and the leaves of the year before, and the year before that, which come next; and when you have thus disposed of several withered generations, you will come to a little black, fresh, perfectly-decayed mould. Not much in a place, perhaps, but the places are many; and there is nothing, with me, that has proved so good for the growth of seeds, as this same leaf mould from the woods. You may use it alone, or with a mingling of common earth, or a little sand.
Having got the soil, the next thing is what to put it in. What is to hold your little seed beds in the house? All the florists, without exception, I believe, say: "Never use pots." And I only answer such high authority with the old words: "When you can't do as you would, you must do as you can." Little seed boxes, sawed in two at a four-inch depth, are capital; and soap boxes with the like treatment, are first-rate. But it is not every lover of flowers that has strength and time to cut up old boxes or make the new. It is not every masculine head of a family that will give his strength and time to "trumpery." And seeds will grow, and grow well, in flower-pots, if only they have the right sort of care. Earthen seed-pans (a kind of broad, shallow flower-pot) are, I think, on the whole, about the best thing I ever used, – light and manageable, and large enough not to let the earth dry too fast. And there is a great system of indemnity in this world. Soap boxes are good, no doubt, Mr. Henderson; but if they have to be carried about from window to window and room to room, to catch the sun or follow the fire, then, you see, there is a qualification to their excellence.
Well, take the best you can get, – then prepare your mould by sifting. And as you and I have not always a nest of riddles at hand, let me tell you that a twenty-five cent wire ladle will do extremely well for the first rough sifting; while a small wire sieve, for the like extravagant price, will finish up the work in a quite superior manner. Even a cinder sifter can be made to help.
Fill your boxes or pots about half full of the rough sifting that remain in the sieve, and then fill to within an inch of the top with the finest of the mould; shake the pots lightly, smooth down the mould with a light pressure, and sow your seeds.
Now in all gardening matters one must use plenty of common sense. You will see at a glance, if you think as well as look, that all seeds must not be planted alike. Some are large, like canna and balsams and thunbugia, and need to be down in the ground a half inch or more. Then others, smaller or lighter, like verbenas, must have less covering; and when you get to the little dust-seeds – petunias and poppies and portulacca – make the surface of the earth very smooth, scatter the seeds over, and press them gently down. That is covering enough. The soil should be damp, but not wet, when you sow seeds; and after sowing it is good to give the whole a gentle sprinkling, and then to cover the pots with an old pane of glass if you have one at leisure. If not, a folded newspaper will do very well, and keep the seeds from drying too fast, before they have a chance to start. Much watering for the first few days is apt to wash the smaller seeds out of place and out of sight. Take notice, too, in your planting, that all thin, flat seeds, – such as stocks, for instance, – need less covering of earth than those which are round and hard. Keep your pots and boxes in a warm room, but not too hot, where the seeds will have gentle forcing; only the cannas may be set in the warmest place you can find. On the water kettle of a stove is very good.
If there is verbena seed among your packages, that must have fresh soil. Whatever the others can put up with, give the verbenas what they want. Not earth taken from a garden, in which whole races of plants have lived and died for years; but earth from the woods, or the crumbly mould of decayed sods, or scrapings from the rich spots and corners of a pasture-land. The under surface of each new sod you can take up, has a very little that is very good. Such new "stuff," as the gardeners call it, is best for all seeds, but indispensable for verbenas. Dexter Snow, of Chicopee – great authority on verbenas – says there is no use in trying to grow them in old soil; and my experience certainly bears him out. The seeds will not start well; the plants will not be strong; and the bed of bloom which you ought to have from each verbena will resolve itself into a poor, scraggy, straggling plant, a burden to itself and to everybody that sees it.
Have fresh soil for your verbenas. And even when you set them out in the garden – unless you can dig up new beds for them every year – take out a few spadefuls of earth from the old bed where a plant is to go, and fill in with new, rich stuff from the woods or the pasture.
Most people, I think, choose rather to buy the plants than the seed; and to be absolutely sure of fine varieties, and special varieties, that is of course the best way. So, also, if you want whole beds of white or purple or crimson. And it is quite true that young verbenas are much given to "miffs" and freaks, and do not always consider existence worth striving for. But they are very interesting seedlings to me, because they "sport" so freely; and I never know just what I shall have, and enjoy all the pleasure of expectation and novelty and surprise. I said they were of uncertain disposition, but that is only while they are in the seed-leaf. Once started in the world with a pair of rough leaves, and verbenas will defy most things. Before that, you must watch them a little. Sometimes the young plant comes up with the old seed for a head-piece, – not carried loosely,. bean-fashion, but worn with a very tight fit; and then (perhaps because the air of the room is too dry) the seed maintains its hold, and keeps the leaves in prison. If this lasts dangerously long (don't wait till the little plant begins to hang its heavy head), take small sharp scissors and clip off the tip end of the seed, steadying the plant all the while with a spare finger. Generally then, with a break once made, the leaves muster strength and finish the work, and the plant is not a bit the worse. The seed-leaves will be a little nipped at the ends, but the true leaves will be quite unhurt; unless indeed you have clipped too close.
People who sow a dozen packets of seed will smile at my directions: people who sow but one will understand.
Keep your seed-pans moist, but not wet. "Sprinkle every day," Mr. Henderson says, – but sprinkle cautiously. Do you know how? It is an easy matter if you have all appliances, – a "sprinkler," or "syringe," with all the modern improvements. But a brass syringe is costly, and I never saw a tin one yet that was worth house room. You must educate your fingers. For no "mist" will go up out of the ground for your flowers as it did for Eve's, – you must imitate her Fairyland as best you may. I have watered a great many little seed-beds from the ends of my fingers, letting the drops glide softly off, and holding my fingers quite close to the soil; for if the drops fall from too great a height they pack and harden it. If the seeds are large, and not easily disturbed, hold your left hand close over the pot, hollow it slightly, and pour the water slowly in there; letting it trickle softly down between the closed fingers. Another expedient (of a professed gardener, this time) is to take a clean paint brush, dip it in water, and draw it through your hand in such a fashion that the drops fall in a shower of fine spray. But this needs practice.
In the intervals of seed business, look over your potted plants; for they will begin to wake up now, thinking of new leaves, and possible blossoms: therefore give them all the encouragement you can. Nip off the leaves that are faded, prune in unruly shoots, see if any need re-potting. For when the old pot is getting crowded with roots, it is then best to move. But let the change be always to a pot just one size larger. When there is no need of repotting, turn off some of the top soil, and fill up with new; and this needs no fine sifting. The plants may have more water too, as the spring draws on; and all the sunshine that can be had.
How softly the season advances now! – how exquisite is the unbending of nature! – Even with ice and snow still in sight, there is a change in the whole look of the world. The light is different, and more tender; the clouds roll up in softer lines; and even in the wind – cold as it is yet – there comes the strange wild scent of swelling buds. And the phœbes chant softly to each other; and the sun sends warm persuasive glances to which even the soberest heart must yield.
Every day I set my plants out in our little glazed piazza for a taste of early summer; and stand there myself, to watch them. How they love the sun! – seeming to yearn towards it; even as I, last winter, in my sunless sick room, used to lay my face close against the window frame, to catch – slantwise – one little ray of the blessed sunshine.
Even so my plants lean towards the light, stretching forth their hands to grasp it and bring it home.
Do you see? – it is their life, their joy, their rest. The pale leaves take strength and colour, the drooping buds lift up their heads; the new shoots spring forth to grow.
"I don't know" – said a poor Scotch girl, when the Session before whom she was examined doubted whether she "knew enough" to join the church; "I can't tell about that. May be I don't know enough. But as a flower turns to the sun, so my heart turns to the Lord Jesus."
"A light wheelbarrow is the best means of transport."
| Daffy-down dilly came up in the cold, |
| Through the brown mould, |
| Although the March breezes blew keen on her face |
| Although the white snow lay in many a place. |
| Daffy-down-dilly had heard under ground |
| The sweet rushing sound |
| Of the streams, as they burst off their white winter chains, – |
| Of the whistling Spring winds and the pattering rains. |
| "Now then," thought Daffy, deep down in her heart, – |
| "It's time I should start!" |
| So she pushed her soft leaves through the hard frozen ground, |
| Quite up to the surface, and there she looked round. |
| There was snow all about her, – grey clouds overhead, – |
| The trees all looked dead. |
| Then how do you think Daffy-down-dilly felt, |
| When the sun would not shine and the ice would not melt? |
| "Cold weather!" thought Daffy, still working away: |
| "The earth's hard to-day! |
| There's but a half inch of my leaves to be seen, |
| And two-thirds of that is more yellow than green!" |
| "I can't do much yet – but I'll do what I can. |
| It's well I began! |
| For unless I can manage to lift up my head, |
| The people will think that the Spring herself's dead." |
| So, little by little, she brought her leaves out, |
| All clustered about; |
| And then her bright flowers began to unfold, |
| Till Daffy stood robed in her Spring green and gold. |
| O Daffy-down-dilly! so brave and so true! |
| I wish all were like you! |
| So ready for duty in all sorts of weather, |
| And holding forth courage and beauty together. |
I LIKE to begin early, even with the out-of-door work. Using caution of course, and judgment; but still following close on the retiring footsteps of the snow, and disputing the ground inch by inch with the frost. Pleasure is gained, if nothing else.
Of course regular digging while the earth is wet and cold, will be of little use, – if you dig it now, it will just dry in lumps and clods that will give you endless trouble. It is very heavy work, besides. But you can rake and dress and "fuss," to your heart's content, – transplanting and arranging and considering; and if the digging waits a little, the hardy perennials will have their heads above ground, and so miss the chance of being decapitated by your spade; and many self-sown annuals will spring up, ready to your hand for transplanting. And besides, – a matter of much importance where you do your own digging, – the labour will be not half, if the ground is dry and crumbly and friable: if it works well, as experts say.
Do you do your own digging? – and do you know how? It is such pretty work! – and by no means so tiresome as hoeing.
|
| SET OF LADIES' GARDEN TOOLS. |
A light spade is the first essential, – sharp and bright and clean from all soil of the last digging. Then ground in good condition: then, patience to do very little at a time, till you get used to the work. If you fail to use this last little tool, the chance is that you will lay yourself up with a lame back and an extreme disgust for digging. But it will be your fault, not the spade's. You can lame yourself just as thoroughly with a too-long first ride on horseback, or pull in the boat.
Having then all essentials, begin joyously! – with the scent of the fresh grass and the fresh earth circling all round you, and blue birds charming your eyes, and song sparrows cheering you on. And if you can persuade one of those useful articles called men to go round each flower bed with a stronger foot and spade, trimming the grass edging where it has encroached, before you begin, your work will be all the easier.
The first rule seems very simple. Begin at one end. Or if the bed is round and endless, begin at one side. And when you have begun, go steadily on, in that line. Did you ever see a woman begin to scrub in the middle of the floor, or at the door of exit? Very well; don't do that: you must not walk over the ground you have dug.
Begin at one end, – and open a narrow furrow quite across the bed, taking out the earth and conveying it quite to the other end. If the bed is but small, a strong, skilled hand can easily throw the earth there at once, spadeful by spadeful; but it needs strength; and so Mrs. Loudon says, that a light wheelbarrow is the best means of transport. And I should say that too; but I tried so long in vain to get a light wheelbarrow myself, that I am afraid to call it an essential. A basket will do instead.
|
| LADIES' WHEELBARROW. |
The furrow once opened, dig across the line of earth that comes next to it, taking moderate spadefuls, but going down as deep as you can; and turn each spadeful of earth quite upside down into the empty furrow. Go regularly on in this way, till the whole bed is finished, being careful to break and mix the earth well as you go, and also to pick out any large stones. Common weeds and rubbish may be buried at the bottom of your furrows; but pull out all the sorrel, root and branch. That will grow, sideways and endways and all ways; and from almost a foot deep.
If the bed is small, you need not begin to rake till it is all dug; but in a large bed, the best way is to rake from time to time, as soon as you have ready a strip of two or three feet wide. Hold the handle of the rake high, and use it lightly; breaking lumps and bringing all the surface to a fine crumbly state. Let the centre of the bed be a little higher than the sides (more or less, according to your soil) and be careful to leave no small hills and valleys as you go. If the ground needs manure, that must be spread evenly over the bed before you begin the digging; and no manure should be used, of any kind, that is not well decayed and in a dry, crumbly state that will let it mix easily with the mould.
If you want to draw earth from one part of the bed to another with your rake, then hold the handle low.
To go back to our verbenas. As soon as you see the plants fairly up, give them plenty of light and sunshine; else they will run up slim and tall like a boy that has outgrown his strength; and be what the gardeners call "drawn." And as soon as the first little rough leaves begin to appear, pot the seedlings off singly in very small pots – the smaller the better. All house seedlings should be treated in the same way, if you have small pots enough. If not, then use a larger size, and put three plants in each; setting them round the edge at even distances apart. Then when they are to be set in the open ground, turn out the whole ball of earth into your hand, and neatly break it into three, having a plant in each. If you are careful, the roots will be almost as little disturbed as if each seedling had its own pot. And by the way, in choosing small pots for this work, get those that are narrow and deep rather than broad, – roots need most room in that direction.
Suppose only one plant in the seed pan is ready for transplanting, – some small geranium or verbena that has pushed on ahead of its fellows. Then take a very small kitchen teaspoon, or a narrow flat bit of stick, a little sharpened at one end, and carefully dig up the plant that is ready. If you put your stick well down to the bottom of the seed pan, you can take up a seedling with all the earth that fairly belongs to it, and make no disturbance that can matter to the other plants. Have a small clean pot at hand, with a potsherd over the hole and a little earth on that; set stick and plant gently down in the middle; and without removing the stick put in earth enough to hold up the plant. Draw out your stick gently, fill up the pot to within a half inch of the top, strike it lightly on the table to "firm" the earth, water slowly and moderately; and then if the earth has sunk away too much, add more. Keep your seedling for a few days "warm and close," the florists say, until it is "established;" then give it plenty of sunshine, and air by degrees, turning your plant often, lest it should not be "of a round mind." And do not forget to fill up the hole in the seed-pan bed, with a spoonful of fresh earth.
In all my talk about plants in pots, I believe I have said nothing of the insects which sometimes trouble them, – partly, indeed, because I almost forgot their existence. In our cool, fresh rooms, with open fires and plenty of air, the plants enjoy themselves much better than the insects; and I rarely see one. But in close, stove-heated houses, the advantage is all the other way.
Almost everybody who has had a few roses or geraniums to care for, has made acquaintance at some time or other with the delicate, pretty, mischievous little green fly, or aphis. Probably most have seen (on their own plants or other people's) a tender rose shoot, a sweet geranium leaf, so covered with these little interlopers as to be simply disgusting. And though hand-picking may have made a clearance for the time, yet the ranks were always filled and refilled, in exhaustless measure. Quietly sapping the juices of your plants, and spoiling the look of all that they did not eat, so you have seen them. Well, for your comfort and encouragement, Mr. Henderson says that this small mischief-maker should never be seen. Of course it follows that he need not. The best greenhouse preventive seems to be thorough fumigation; – one speck of sense the aphis has in its small head – it does not like tobacco. Smoke your little greenhouse two or three times a week; and when you can stand the smell long enough yourself to go and look, you will find that the aphis tribe have disappeared – or not appeared – as the case may be.
A sweeter, easier remedy for those who live in their greenhouse, is pure cold water. A vigorous shower bath, at short intervals, is the best thing I ever tried.
Worse than the green aphis, but not so well-known, is the red spider. A minute speck of scarlet, – too small to be noticed, but working infinite harm. You can trace them by their work; for after their feeding, the plant leaves turn brown as if they had been slightly scorched. I lost almost a whole set of fine seedling calceolarias once in that way, before I ever guessed what was the matter. Water is the great remedy here, – showering, syringing, washing the leaves; whatever you can do best; and remember that the hotter and dryer the air where you keep your plants, the more danger they are in from red spider.
The verbena mite, or "rust" – another creature known chiefly by its work, is beyond the reach of most remedies, bedding itself in the very substance of the leaf. The best preventive is to keep your plants in vigorous growth.
"I had a lot of about 500 heliotropes," says Mr. Henderson, "growing in two-inch pots; one half of which were, in September, shifted into three-inch pots. They were kept side by side, and treated in all respects the same. Those shifted, of course, with increased food, grew vigorously and strong, while the unshifted remained comparatively stunted; and to-day, Dec. 1st, the 'black rust' shows itself on nearly every plant, and the microscope shows on every affected leaf hundreds of these insects, feeding like sheep on a pasture field, while on the shifted plants none whatever can be found."*
Keep growing, – is safe counsel for your plants as well as yourself.
Mealy bug needs no description. You may never see him, – if you do, pick him off. If he will stay, give him a dose of whale-oil soap-suds. Though this is not very safe for very tender plants.
If there is an oleander in your collection, you may find the scale insect on some of the stems. It is ugly, but not very harmful, – hand-picking and washing the stems with soap-suds are the best cure.
Meantime, with all this house care, do not forget your sweet peas out-of-doors. Plant them as soon as the ground will work. Frost in the air won't hurt them. It is a good way to set whatever support they are to have, before planting. Make sure that the stick or trellis is in firm and upright; then plant your peas, pretty thick, and not a bit less than four inches deep. Never fear, they'll come up; and their roots will be beyond the reach of summer heats.
Some other things should be sown as early as possible in the open ground, – candytuft, larkspur, poppies, mignonnette, lupins, sweet alyssum, clarkia, and such hardy annuals. Directions say, put them at once where they are to remain, as most of these dislike transplanting; and they do certainly need extra care. But I think I have transplanted every one of those named above, and had them do well. One of the first things I do in the spring, when the ground is cleared and softened, is to examine my flower beds very closely, to find out any stray seedlings that may have come up, and to move them to prepared quarters. Of course this examination must be before the ground is stirred.
Dig the place for these, or for seeds, not when it is wet; making it fine and soft; stake out a charmed circle a foot or so broad with neat slender sticks; and there sow your seeds – not too deep. Be careful to cover them according to the size of the seeds – sweet peas are the only exception; and let the covering be too shallow rather than too deep. Seeds covered too lightly may come up (so says Mrs. Loudon) by dint of very favourable weather; but seeds covered too deep never can. Press down the earth gently the first thing, and the last thing; and stick a label in the middle or at one side of the patch. Else you may get two sets of poppies "cheek by jowl," and red, white, and blue, in anything but harmonious confusion. Some gardeners say it is well to cover the seed patch for a few days with a bit of board or an empty flower pot. It may be, – I have never tried it. But remember neither to dig nor sow nor transplant just after a heavy rain. The earth will dry in clods, and give you great trouble.
Some time this month you must uncover your bulbs. The middle of March is generally my time; but that must vary a little with season and place. Let no careless hand touch the beds; for the shoots are many of them well up by this time, and the brush and leaves must be taken off very gently. Then dress the surface of the earth with light trowel work, so as to loosen and smooth and put the whole in neat order; being very careful not to injure the shoots that are not yet up. Give relief to the tulips that have come up with a dry leaf round their necks, and tighten any labels that the frost has thrown out. You need not be uneasy because the shoots look yellow instead of green; they will take their right colour when they have had a little sunshine and fresh air. And the night frosts will not hurt them, nor even a spring snow. Dress the ground and leave them alone, until their heads of bloom need tying up.
* Practical Floriculture.
"Fair, rich confusion is all the aim of an old-fashioned flower garden."
| Do you know what Spring is doing? |
| Little children, do you know |
| She has carried off the icicles, |
| And swept away the snow? |
| The soft air comes to fan her, |
| And the birch hangs out his banner, |
| And the squirrel-cup peeps boldly from his brown leaf bed below. |
IF there is a month in the year when everything wants doing at once, and nothing is willing to wait, I suppose it is this same rainbow month of April. Every individual seed and plant is in a hurry, and you must have a good deal of self-control to escape the breathless contagion; for with your pets on the jump, how shall you give them slow and quiet attention? Yet they need it, – need shading and repressing sometimes; for it will not do for them to get ahead of the season. The storm-nursed little candytufts and alyssums that have come up out-of-doors on their own responsibility, will fight the frost and live it through; but your thin-skinned house seedlings are quite another matter. Their tissues are delicate with warmth and petting; and unless they are hardened off before they are set out, the hardening process will prove fatal. You remember the little girl who went to school with the tears freezing on her cheeks and her mittens in her pocket. Being asked the cause of this arrangement, she replied that she "wanted to be tough." Well – you must "toughen" your plants more gently than that. When they are well up, set the seed box further from the stove; and when the potted seedlings are well established, give them cooler air, and more of it, from day to day, that they may be ready to brave the outer world.
Do you know, unscientific people who love flowers, how it is that your pets freeze to death? It was a delightful discovery to me, when I first understood it. Each plant, and each part of a plant, you must remember, is made up of minute little cells, separated by only a wall of thin tissue. As the plant grows, the cells expand to their full size, and then divide themselves in two by throwing across from side to side a new little wall of tissue. In its turn each half of the divided cell stretches out to full proportions and divides again; and so the process goes on. Now these cells are not empty, but are full of a thin sort of mucilage, with often a little nucleus of matter still more solid. If then, the cold is intense enough to freeze this mucilage, it swells out, of course, as you know liquids do in freezing, and bursts through the thin walls of the cell. And if this once happens, the plant – or that part of it – is dead beyond recovery. But hardy plants have stronger tissues, and the frost does them no harm; except perhaps to a new shoot here and there which we call "imperfectly ripened," – not having yet attained the full thickness of its tissues. Do you see now, how if your seedlings are sent straight from the stove to the garden, their tissues are too tender to stand anything? Whereas, by careful hardening, the walls of the cells will have grown thick and strong, and the plants may be set out with little danger.
|
| SECTION OF MAPLE ROOT TO SHOW THE CELLS. |
A grave question comes up in many minds at this time of year, as to the best arrangement of flower beds, – a nice question, too; having much to do with the results so gleefully expected from our little packets of seed. Yet I do not want to give much real advice on the subject. It is well enough to study plans and designs, if you like; but then decide quite independently, and do not be driven or lured from your own choice and taste by any such words as "old-fashioned" or "indispensable;" else you may find yourself, like poor Rosamond, digging a pond which will be "quite full and very useful" in rainy weather only. Use your judgment and common sense, – they are Taste's two best under-gardeners. The arrangement which is very fine for one piece of ground, suiting its size and characteristics, may be quite lost in another; and figures which make a beautiful mosaic in skilful hands, are often mere disorder and confusion, where want of practice or want of time leaves them to their own devices, untrimmed and uncared for. Therefore, study your time first of all, and choose no plan which will require more of that than you can give.
If you are unlimited in this respect; if you have an eye for colour as well as form; if neither your pains nor your patience are likely to give out; then you may have a very splendid show with a geometric flower garden, – where all the beds are laid out in exact shapes, and with a certain reference to each other; the whole forming a pattern of coloured embroidery upon the green turf. In this case each bed must be filled with a single colour and a single kind of flower, the compact, close-growing sorts being chosen, and those which are of constant and abundant bloom. A mere border line of a different colour is admissible round each bed; but it will not make the figure so full and perfect as where simple masses of colour are used. For full effect, such a garden should be on ground a little lower than the house, so that the whole may be seen together. One of the finest situations I ever saw, was where the house stood on an upspringing rise of ground; and quite at the foot, a little to one side but all in sight, lay the garden.
Geometric beds need to be very carefully planned and marked out, before a thing is planted; and they always show best with grass between, – "laid down in turf," as the books say: though of course box or other edgings may be used, and the walks made of gravel. But whatever divides the beds must be kept in the most precise order. So must the flowers themselves. Plant or sow them rather thicker than needful, at first, and then thin out from time to time, so as to have strong, hardy plants, that will cover the whole ground. Then, as they grow, keep them rigourously within bounds; clip and train and fasten back, and let nothing stray over the limits by even so much as a bud. A geometric flower garden must have military line-and-rule precision; neither visiting nor "followers" can be allowed; and the pretty wandering blossoms that go roaming about with such fair effect in other places, have no business here. Neither must you let plants have entirely their own up-and-down way, – prune the aspiring shoots of geraniums, and keep everything close and bushy and at home. Keep watch also of your edgings, lest they encroach in irregular fashion here and there, and so spoil your pattern. Choose and sort your colours carefully, giving heed to the contrasts. Mrs. Loudon advises that the design be first drawn and coloured on paper, where alterations are easy. And then throughout the season see that your beds have not only care and clipping, but also water – from your hands, if the clouds fail; lest brown plants and empty beds take the place of bright patches of colour. This it is, more than anything else perhaps, which makes geometric flower gardens such a success in England and (so often) such a failure here: the English climate is so much more favourable.
To say truth, I never saw any "bedding" system in our climate amount to much more than beds of tinted green; and I never even guessed how superb it might be, till an English lady showed me a water-colour sketch of a certain English country house. Quiet and brown itself, the house had for a foreground a lawn of living velvet, and, upon that, flower-beds that were like spots of flame or bits of sky, – mere miracles of colour.
"And then the turf" – remarked our hostess, – "it is not all climate; but the turf has been mowed and rolled and watered, and mowed and rolled and watered, for a hundred years!"
Another plan in great favour now, is to ribband everything, – the flowers being set in even lines along or around the bed, sort beyond sort, and colour beyond colour. The beds may be of any size or shape; but the plants should vary in height, rising slowly from the outer edge to the centre or the back. Let the trailers be at the very front, – the little four-inch or six-inch beauties, then the eight and twelve-inch; and so on back to two, three, and four feet – or eight feet – if you choose. Be careful of your colours here also, and plant only free and constant bloomers; for you cannot easily get in among the lines to replace one sort with another.
If you have plenty of room on your lawn, if your lawn is kept always close-shaven, then small beds here and there upon it, filled with one single colour each, are very fair to see. But do not be persuaded to waste your roses in beds. I never saw a rose-bed yet that had half the beauty of a single fine specimen "left blooming alone," either in among other and lower flowers, or in a little dug-out patch by itself
To mark out these simple beds you need only a long cord with a pointed stick tied to each end. Set one stick firm in the ground, where the centre of the bed should be, and with the other trace your circle. Then stake it well and evenly, ready for cutting in the turf, or edging in the open ground. To make an exact oval, set both sticks in line, a little nearer together than the proposed length of the bed; wind up the cord until it is just that length; and then with a third stick draw out the cord as far as it will reach on all sides, marking as you go, till you come round to the point where you began.
And now what shall I say about the old-fashioned garden? – much talked against, much laughed at, by most people who have "facilities." Yet for those who have not, it after all often the best; needing less time, less skill, less knowledge of form and colour; and giving results that are sweet at least, if they are not wonderful. Few directions are called for here. Fair, rich confusion is all the aim of an old-fashioned flower garden, and the greater the confusion, the richer. You want to come upon mignonnette in unexpected places, and to find sprays of heliotrope in close consultation with your roses, and geraniums sporting their uniforms like gay recruits off duty. Sweet peas bow to phloxes here, and the gladiolus straightens itself with harmless pride among its more pliant companions, and the little white sweet alyssum goes visiting all the day. There is the most exquisite propriety and good fellowship, with an utter absence of "deportment;" and the perennials that pass out of flower are kindly hid and merged by their blooming neighbors, till their time of glory comes round again. And if a sedate member of the Balm family shows its red head in a corner, or a tall bush cranberry peeps over the fence to display its strings of coral: even if an old Corchorus surveys the beauties of to-day, and gravely discourses of
"The times that used to was," –nobody is shocked, and the old bush is not disturbed. No stiffness, no ceremony, – flowers, and not a garden, – this is the beauty of the old style; yet even here taste and judgment will find work.
For instance, you will not shadow your lively little verbenas with the stately growth of a tall ricinus; nor force the tea roses to keep house near the marigolds. You will not suffer a weed anywhere. Give the small things a chance to be seen, and let distance heighten the enchantment of those that are tall and tree-like. Scatter your colours broadcast indeed, and yet with a certain thought and method; have plenty of tufts of pure green, such as rose geraniums and the flowering grasses, with here and there a red achyranthes or mottled coleus to catch and hold the sun: and let fragrance abound everywhere. For this is much of the charm of the old garden, – not trim shapes, and inlaid figures, and gorgeous masses of colour; but rich, soft, mingled bloom, and tender tints, and wafts of nameless sweetness to every passer-by.
However your beds are laid out, however your flowers are distributed, remember to use great care in preparing the soil and putting in the seed. Then, when the seeds are in, use patience. For some will be slow to come up, taking a long while to awaken out of their brown sleep; and some will come up in a thin scattering fashion; because certain flowers ripen their seed unequally, and always give a large percentage of husks. Perhaps a few kinds will not come up at all. You may have covered them too deep; or a cold storm may have caught the little seedlings in the first moments of their growth, and chilled them past recovery; or some unseen host of insect marauders may have quartered on them for a night, choosing your flower bed before all the world. Such things must happen now and then, and the best regulated families suffer.
It is good to reserve a little seed of various kinds – especially the smaller and more delicate – for a second planting in such emergencies: sometimes, too, one can fill the vacant places with the thinnings of another patch. Yet do not be in a hurry to conclude that the first planting has failed; because, as I said, some seeds must have time; and those wiry little things that hurry up as if they had slept all winter with one eye open, may mislead you concerning the rest. But however things go, take Mr. Vick's advice, and count the seeds that grow rather than those that fail, – letting no lament for what you have not, spoil the sweetness of what you have.
We had an old gardener once who had a dexterous way of running his finger down into the flower-pot or seed patch to see if the seeds were "coming," but it is a bad plan for people of less experience. Let the seeds wait their time, – wait too, it may be, for clear sunshine or a shower of rain, – and then before you know it they will be up; some sooner, some later, each after its kind.
I tried a new way with my canna seeds this year, to find out whether they were coming up. They had steamed away on the top of the stove-kettle so long, that I began to have doubts on the subject, and resolved one day to try a change of stimulus and give them a little sunshine. So I took up the pot, carried it safely across one room, and dropped it full in the middle of the next! then looked about me in some dismay. For an electric shock wants at least to be applied judiciously, and with some regard to the strength of the patient. There lay the shattered pot, there was the warm black earth scattered far and wide; and there, sprinkled upon it, so to say, were three brown canna seeds, each showing an unmistakable white root and the tip of a young green leaf. Well, there was no use in driving them into seclusion again. I brought little pots, and gave each seedling one; hiding the green shoot lightly beneath the soil, that it might after all take its own time for appearing. Then I searched out the rest of the seeds, crumbling every black lump of earth, sifting and examining with my fingers, finding the other three one by one. But they were all in their original state of blackness and hardness; and though I replanted them, giving them both steam and sun, not one was kind enough to grow. The first three flourished and made fine plants.
N. B. – In trying this experiment, it is well to count your seeds before planting, that you may know when you have picked them all up.
"The little white sweet alyssum goes visiting all the day."
| "O," said the little blades of grass, |
| Growing up; |
| "O, how the spring hours pass, |
| Butter-cup! |
| Winds come and whistle, |
| And birds come and sing, |
| And the early time of life |
| Is a very sunny thing!" |
| "Yes," said the buttercup, and bowed |
| Very low; |
| "And joy cometh also from a cloud, |
| As you know: |
| Soft April showers, |
| And sweet drops of rain, |
| How they make our faces shine |
| When the sun comes out again!" |
THE days pass, and the weeks gather them up, and still there is little change in our garden. Cold winds by day, and light frosts by night, rather chill the energies of young seedlings, and they are slow to venture forth into such an unpromising world. But though we must confess, with the wonderful writer of the Biglow papers, that
"Half our May's so awfully like mayn't," –yet who is not ready to follow him further, in his rejoicing over our seasons just as they are?
"Though I own up, I like our back'ard springs,
That kind o' haggle with their greens an' things,
An' when you most give up, 'ithout more words
Toss the fields full o' blossoms, leaves and birds."
It is dangerous to begin quoting from such a book of beauties! I am tempted on. But as Mr. Biglow himself remarks:
"'Nuff sed."
Slow as the season is in its developing process, invisible as is the growth which your little plants do really make from day to day, it is well that there is so much other work to do in the garden besides watching them. Work which cannot wait, and so makes our waiting easier. First go over the grass of lawn and edgings, and have bare spots resodded or broken up and sprinkled with grass seed and clover: even a light dressing of fine barn-yard manure will do much. All rubbish of sticks and stones – the drift of winter storms – should have been raked off long ago. Dig up any wild onions that show their presumptuous heads, getting the start of the grass, and if sorrel appears here and there, give it such a dusting with wood-ashes that it will be glad to hide. Just now, while merely in leaf, you notice it less; but by and by, when it is in flower, the red patches will spoil the lawn effect, pretty as they may be in themselves.
Put fresh gravel upon the walks wherever it is washed or worn away; and the Quaker storm, when it comes, will beat all down into smooth compactness.
In and about the flower beds, too, there is work. Honeysuckles need support and clipping, and roses need tying up. A tall-growing rose is twice as handsome if it is fast bound to a tall stake; then the buds start out on every side, and you have a pyramid of roses. Prune off all the dead or half-dead shoots, and all that have strayed into ungainly length; cutting them back to a sound, fresh bud. Above all, give them a thorough application of whale-oil soap, to kill or keep off the slugs; unless indeed you have no such pests on your roses; and even then it is safe, for an importation might come with some new rose-bush from a distance. If you are happy enough not to know them by sight, let me say that they are little green worm-like creatures – yet not quite a worm; working generally on the under side of the green leaves (Mr. Henderson says that one variety eats the whole leaf); and making your roses look as if they had been through the fire. The fly is a small, gauzy-winged busybody, with a black head. Neither of them can bear whale-oil soap; which for beings living on rose leaves, is not wonderful. Put a pound of this in eight gallons of water, and syringe the bushes, or water over the tops with a fine-rose watering pot, just as the leaf buds begin to swell; and repeat the dose two or three times, until the leaves are full out. Then you will have no trouble. Florists, of more experience than I, say that prevention is the only thing with slugs; and that if they once get on the bush you can do little more. But I have not found it so. Once or twice when I have been away from home just at the critical time, and so the early dosing was neglected, and a few slugs made their appearance, I have found that soap-suds and hand picking together would even then effect a clearance.
During this month all seedlings may go into the open border, and all seeds be sown: some earlier, some later, according to their hardiness. Move those young things that are for transplanting as soon as they have a pair of real leaves, or are large enough to be handled easily; and thin out those that were sown at once in their summer home. It is hard to do this, – one has such a feeling of the unknown possibilities locked up in each inch of green, and such a fear of pulling up the very finest varieties where all look alike. Yet this is sure, unless you thin them out (if the plants have come up fairly) no variety will do itself justice, and you will have a patch of spindling, flowerless stems, instead of abundant, thick-set leaves and blossoms. Let your asters stand from six to twelve inches apart, according to the kind, and stocks twelve inches, and zinnias twenty. Phlox may have a foot or more, according to the soil, for that has much to do with its growth, and alyssum and portulacca and the other low half-trailers need but three or four inches. Sweet peas want no thinning, – let them stand as thick as they will; and mignonnette generally takes care of itself. Then certain plants, like the tall œnotheras and cockscombs, often show best standing singly, one in a place, with no other of the sort near by to divide attention. Cannas always look best so (unless you want a tropical bed on the lawn, filled only with cannas and such like); and so do dahlias, and chrysanthemums, and tuberoses. You get more good from the one alone, can study and take it in better, than you can with a group of three or six. But try experiments with a part of your flowers – experiments in grouping and bedding; proving their capabilities, and what suits your soil and climate, and above all what suits you; and then keep a record of your experience.
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| MORNING GLORY IN SEED-LEAF. | MORNING GLORY WITH FIRST LEAVES OUT. |
In warm quiet days, as the month goes on and frosts disappear, plant out the tender seedlings from your boxes; and turn out potted plants into the border. Verbenas may be risked among the first, and scarlet geraniums I have always found to be of a much-enduring disposition; and many tender things may go to the open air quite early in May, if you are careful to cover them slightly when the evening threatens frost. Bell glasses are seldom seen in our Fairyland. But a flower-pot will do good service and in quiet weather a cone-shaped twist of newspaper will be excellent protection from Jack's slight attacks; while a small box-frame with a bit of glass across the top can be left on both night and day in heavy weather. Or you may extemporize quite handsome covers thus: Get pieces of broken glass of any variety of shapes; cut them or have them cut so as to fit a little; then join them dome-fashion with india rubber varnish and strips of tape. Varnish over the tape on the outside then and fasten a wire or tape loop at the top for convenience in lifting.
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| HOME-MADE HAND GLASS. |
Old baskets are good for the same purpose; and in England they make beautiful new wicker-work protectors. I am not sure whether it is much done here.
Mr. Henderson says, that any plants in pots which will be wanted for winter blooming, should be kept in pots through the summer; the hole in the bottom being well stopped up, that no roots may strike through, and the pots plunged – or set to the rim – in the open ground. The pots should be six or seven inches diameter in this case, so as to give the plant a little room.
But all others may be turned out to take care of themselves. Now if your potted plants have been repotted often enough, you will find the turning out very easy work. Lay your left hand across the top of the pot, letting the plant stem pass deftly between your fingers; turn the pot over, and strike lightly on the bottom with your other hand. This should be quite enough; and the little ball of earth and roots slips gently down into your left hand, the plant being steadied and held in place by your fingers. But if the roots have taken too firm hold of the pot to yield to such slight persuasion, then put a blunt stick through the hole in the bottom of the pot, and gently push against the crock that lies there. If both these fail, your plant has been long in need of repotting, and you must get it out the best way you can. "One proceeds with a knife, and inserts it all round the sides of the pot, and thus scoops it out; another favourite way is to break the sides of the pot with a hammer."* I have seen both these things done, and say to all my readers, Don't! And you had better lay the plant in water and soak it out, than with one great tug to tear it out by the roots.
Dig a hole in the border a little deeper than your ball of earth, and set the plant in a slight basin rather than on a slight hill. Fill up neatly, water gently and by degrees, – over tops and all, if there is not much sun upon the leaves. And in planting out, as in sowing, keep always in mind the general effect as well as the individual display. This, too, will take study and thought and care. Your one rose geranium would be lost among the grasses, and would just smother the trailers, yet be perfectly refreshing among the bright colours of taller plants. Your one coleus or achyranthes, so gorgeous in the sunlight, with a low setting of green or white, would lose half its own beauty among shady monkshood and full faced perennial phloxes, without helping them one bit. Notice even the style of leaf and growth, as well as the colour of the flower, in your arrangement; let the soft feathery kinds have room to toss and wave their tresses, and the sturdier ones shew all the beauty of their strength in a tall background; and skilfully scatter those plants which bloom but once among those which are always in blossom, so that there may be no bare, flowerless places in your beds at any time.
I have been a good deal interested lately in one of my seedling dahlias. Instead of the two broad, full-fleshed seed leaves with which all the rest came forth into the light, this sent up one Siamese-twin of a leaf; the two seed-leaves that should have been, were joined together nearly their whole length, and with a single footstalk. Where would the true leaves make their appearance? There was no sheltering nest between the seed-leaves, but only an irregular, out-of-the-way affair, that looked as if it had never found out its vocation. I watched and waited; the plant did not droop, it did not grow. The other young dahlias, its companions, put forth their first pair of leaves, and their second pair of leaves; and still the strange little seedling shewed nothing but its first one-sided growth. At last, when the third pair of leaves was unfolding on all the rest, the life in this began to stir. Down at the very foot of its one leaf stalk, close to the ground, came out a confused tuft of leaves. One seed-leaf – a sort of compound of what the first should have been and what it was – with a cluster of other and true leaves, as if first, second, and third had got all mixed up, and so came out in a hurry together. But once fairly aroused and in motion, the little plant kept on. And now, transplanted to the garden, you would not know it from the rest; unless, looking closer, you spied the shapeless little tuft that clothes the foot of the stem.
You will find, by this time, that the clusters of tulips and hyacinths, just past their beauty, are decidedly in the way; taking room that you want to occupy at once with other plants. I have seen it stated, somewhere, that if the roots are lifted carefully, and set in a trench in some reserve corner and well covered with earth, they will mature their leaves almost as well as if undisturbed. But I like "quite" much better than "almost," and have never tried this plan with any of mine. It seems to me that even if the old bulbs do not suffer, the young ones, just forming, must. A better way, I think, is to plant out your seedling stocks and asters and petunias among the bulbs as they stand. By the time these little things have established themselves and begun to grow, the others, whose work is done, can be safely taken up. Look over the beds from time to time, and wherever you see a tuft of bulb leaves turning yellow or dying off at the tips, that root is ready for its rest. Take them up in dry weather, and lay them in a dry shady place until the leaves are quite dead. Label the different kinds at first, and, when dry, store them away in separate wraps of soft paper – old seed bags are very good for this. Then keep them in a dry, airy place until the time for fall planting comes round again.
But you will say to me, many people never take up their bulbs at all. I know; but they lose a good deal for this little saving of trouble. The tulips and hyacinths may bloom respectably for a season or two, but they are sure to run down after awhile; and your beautiful "King Pepin," or "Cicero," or "Duchess of Brunswick," instead of one or two large, clearly-marked and proudly-set blossoms, will give you a clump of most unworthy descendants. I believe this is even more true of hyacinths than of tulips. Besides, if they are left in the mixed flower beds all summer, they run much risk of being cut or injured by the planting of other things and the dressing of the ground. You cannot tell just where they are, and you cannot have a regiment of tall sticks to point them out. And labels standing alone are only pleasant in spring, when your beds are all promise.
Two ways I have seen described for making verbena beds, – both good, I suspect; certainly both worth trying. The first comes backed with a florist's authority: "To grow verbenas successfully, plant them in beds cut in the turf. Chop the turf well, and thoroughly mix with it a good share of well decomposed stable manure; never on any account plant them in old and worn-out garden soil, as they will most assuredly fail. Give them a change of soil each season, as they do not thrive well two years in the same bed. Let the beds, if possible, be where they will have the sun the entire day. By following the above directions, one may have a verbena bed that will be a mass of bloom the entire season."†
"I have two semicircular beds in which I have verbenas," writes "An Old Lady," in "Hearth and Home." "These beds are covered with bloom from the middle of June to the middle of October.
"Early in the spring, about the middle of March or first of April, I pull up all the old verbena vines, pile them and all the leaves they have collected round them in the middle of the beds and set fire to them, and when they are burned, rake the ashes well into the soil. A few shovelfuls of rich earth or well rotted manure is a good addition.
"About the first of May the verbenas begin to come up from their self-sown seeds, and when they are two or three inches high, I thin them out until they stand four inches apart; they will grow very rapidly. As soon as the blooms appear, all that are not satisfactory are pulled up. The richest purple, the purest white, the most intense crimson, the softest lavender, and the rosiest pink will delight your eyes; and there will be no long, straggling stems or ugly patches of burnt-up soil visible, but masses of colour and foliage, and material all summer long for innumerable bouquets."
I have been obliged to shorten the pretty account, but this is it in substance. Both these ways are new to me, – the first comes from Massachusetts, the second from Ohio.
Mr. Henderson, here in New York – or rather in New Jersey – says, "Verbenas are not at all particular about soil, provided it is not water soaked; we have planted them on soils varying from almost pure sand to heavy clay, and, provided it was enriched with manure, there was but little difference in growth or bloom." But his verbenas, "set out in May, by August will have spread to a distance of three feet."
So I am ready to think, after all, that the care is the thing. Not sod, nor soil, nor ashes; but cultivation.
One thing is sure, – verbenas should be well pegged down as they grow. Neat little metal pins can be bought, by the gross, for this purpose; but failing them, make for yourselves little crotch sticks with long ends and short top, such as you can cut from any brushy growth in the woods. Or (privately) use hair-pins! Petunias, too, thrive well under such confinement; and the trailing tropæolums or nasturtiums.
All sorts of training must be attended to now, when everything is making rapid growth; for a little neglect at this stage of progress cannot always be set right by and by. If sweet peas once fairly try lying on the ground, they will lose much of their taste for climbing; and an uncomely bend at this time of year, when plants are taking shape, may never be got rid of to the end. Have dark sticks (with the bark on is prettiest, – no painted sticks look half so well) and plenty of soft strings. Twine and cord are apt to cut; so if you have neither Japanese flax, nor bast mat, nor a yucca, take old bits of worsted braid or binding; even neatly cut strips of cloth will answer, only let them be all dark coloured. Few things look more forlorn in a garden than bits of red, white and blue rags, fluttering and flaunting among the stately plants. Leave no long ends of any sort; and cut leather from an old shoe for the stronger shoots of roses, etc., tying them with a cord passed through each end.
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| STICK AND STRING SUPPORTS. |
None of your gladiolus roots should be out of the ground much later than this. You may begin planting them by the middle of April (three inches deep), and may plant from time to time for several weeks; yet as the late plantings have most to fear from drought, I like the early work best. The different kinds will make a succession, even if planted together.
Remember that last year's tuberose roots (those that bloomed last year) will not bloom again; and so save both room and patience. Last year's new tubers or offsets, well cared for, will make blooming roots for next year, but not for this. In Italy, they say, where soil and climate are just the thing, the same tuberose blooms on from year to year, as the lily and gladiolus do with us. Here they give their white beauty but once. But how fair it is! How even superb, sometimes! I had a tuberose one year with a flower stem more than six feet high; and at the top a great head of sweetness, thick-set with blossoms, like a magnified hyacinth; I never saw such another; but even the small ones are delicious. And so –
"Like the swell of some sweet tune,
May glides onward into June."
* Practical Floriculture.
† Dexter Snow.
"Set them in the barren corners of steps and piazzas."
| How vainly men themselves amaze, |
| To win the palm, the oak, or bays, – |
| And their incessant labours see |
| Crowned from some single herb or tree, |
| Whose short and narrow verged shade |
| Does prudently their toils upbraid, |
| While all the flowers and trees do close, |
| To weave the garlands of Repose. |
| – Andrew Marvel. |
DO you find time, in this "high tide of the year," to peep over your garden fence now and then? taking a look into the Fairyland which the Lord alone has planted? Have you kept watch of the progress there? – from the first white saxifrage tuft or willow catkin, down through all the wonders of squirrel-cup and wind-flower, columbine, arbutus, and Dutchman's breeches? Have you seen the uvularia hang its delicate yellow bell? and found the May orchis, rare every way in its fragrant pink dress? Have your eyes rested on the white blood root, and rejoiced in the dog's-tooth violet? with maple blossoms, red, yellow and green, and tresses of birch and alder, and the white clouds of shad blossoms, and dogwood in fair array? Have you admired – afar off and doubtfully – the great skunk-cabbage, which has indeed the good sense not to force itself into society, but comes out when little else is abroad? And yet the thing is extremely well connected, – with plenty of handsome cousins, and some of them in great demand. Your white calla is one of these, and the rich golden-club; and sweet flag – which many people call "good enough to eat;" while midway between stands Jack-in-the-pulpit, handsome and poisonous, like some other "incumbents" that might be named.
If you have followed all these in their coming forth, then are you ready for the June darlings. Wild lilies, in scarlet with yellow linings; and partridge-berry, in white velvet, perfumed beyond "the powders of the merchant;" and pliant harebells, and the great yellow goblets of the tulip-tree. Then you will not miss the chick winter-green, with its striped leaf – for "foliage plants" are not confined to the garden; and you will watch for the superb perfection of the wild lady's-slipper, or cyprepedium.
Yet do not try to bring it into your Fairyland. It will not live long, – it cannot be itself while it lives. And this is strangely true of many of our fairest wild plants. Whether the dry, sophisticated garden soil blights them; whether they pine for the fresh scent of the woods, or miss their native shade; whatever it is, very few of them are worth the transplanting. The wild columbine loses its airy grace, and stands up stiff and still in a large family clump; the wind-flower thinks life not worth the having; the little wood violets lose heart when confronted with "czar" and "king," and dwindle and wish themselves at home. How can you comfort the partridge-berry, brought up in the shadow of the great pine woods? or what can make amends to epigæa for the loss of its free home among the rocks? Will tulips and hollyhocks be better society than the dear mosses among which they nestle? – will all your admiration make up for the song of the wild birds and the soft pat of the squirrel's feet?
There are some few exceptions to this, but in general (as I have found) it is among the hard stemmed plants. I have had the wild azalea live and bloom in its new setting, year after year; and the clethra, donning its white August dress as if at home. Yet they did not grow very much, – just lived and blossomed, biding their time. And in both cases I gave them a bed of their own native earth to rest in.
Then there is moss-pink. If you have ever seen moss-pink at home, revelling in the clefts of the rocks in the spray of the waterfall, I am not sure that you would much care to see it anywhere else; but, if not, you will find it a very Fairylandish thing indeed. And it is perfectly hardy, and does not need petting.
Talking of what we may transplant, brings us back, naturally enough, to what we may not, – the wonderful things that grow in the Fairyland of some other people. I have spoken before of the good effect of a bright-leaved coleus or achyranthus among the flowering plants here and there. And sometimes they may seem hard to get. I know all about that. But sometimes, too, a friend will furnish a cutting; sometimes you may find one, not exactly "rolling up hill," as the children say, but still in unexpected places. Not in anybody's greenhouse, to begin with. There I would not pick up so much as a leaf from the floor. Professed gardeners are often very chary of their plants, even when their employers are not. Therefore take to yourself the old Arabic proverb, and "in a field of melons don't pull up your shoe." Yet, in other places, keep your eyes open. I have gathered seeds from refuse plants tossed over a garden wall on the Staten Island shore, and found a fine cactus cutting on the pavement in Broadway. And when times of sickness bring baskets of greenhouse beauty to your hands, then let the sweetness and the kindness take root and grow, in bits of myrtle and lavender and geranium, in small shoots of rare roses, or, perhaps, in the mere little fruit-stem of a cactus flower.
If your flower beds are at all far apart, or even separated, you will find it has a pleasant effect to divide the flowers as well – I do not mean in the way of massing, but let the combinations be different. Do not have everything everywhere, except, indeed, those few rare things, like roses, without which no combination is quite complete. But let there be a natural system of surprises in your garden. Keep the heliotropes rather to one quarter, and let carnations have their special region of bloom. Come upon the fuchsias suddenly, and let your tall perennial phloxes make a prospect in the distance. Chrysanthemums look best scattered, for at their time of glory they have the field almost alone; and the gladiolus and tuberose stems should lift themselves here and there in solitary beauty above the throng. So I think, – though gardeners say "three in a place" and "five in a place." Geraniums and verbenas may go anywhere and everywhere. But one likes to lose zinnias, and come upon balsams, and see cockscombs for a change.
In setting out little plants at this season, if the weather is very hot and dry, it is a good way to lay them – root and branch – in a pan of water, and so plant them all dripping out of that. Water gently and repeatedly then, rather than very much at once, and shade at noonday with cones of newspaper, or flower-pots, or bits of board and shingle, or a cabbage leaf on a stick. Flower-pot shelters should be raised a little at one edge, – the rest are airy enough.
Sow certain things for succession, such as alyssum and mignonnette; and if you can spare a bit of reserve ground, sow there small patches of many annuals, ready for emergencies. Keep back, also, a part of the little seedlings in boxes, for awhile, to replant in the borders; for your flowers will have disasters and enemies and disappointments, like the rest of the world. The shower that seemed certain to come, may go round; and the cool, cloudy day may turn hot and bright, withering the young plants to a very dangerous degree of faintness. Or, with this danger past, others may start up unexpectedly. Perhaps some wandering rabbit, surveying the world by moonlight, will be smittcn with a desire to taste your one Japanese chrysanthemum, and will then and there cut it down to the ground, beyond hope of recovery – as happened to mine the other night. Perhaps some other night-walker, in whom the love of the beautiful has not been quite killed along with his moral sense, will covet and seize and bear away your very loveliest blue hyacinth, just then in its glory. Perhaps a brown grub or cut-worm, working away underground, will mow off a dahlia shoot here, and a fine seedling hedysarum there, with a few sweet peas and other trifles; making his night-meal of your most hopeful little plants, and leaving a mournful blank where yesterday stood the fresh young tuft of leaves.
Well, to him, at least, you can deal out justice. It is not easy to reach the other marauders – not even when the rabbit returns for a rose geranium and your first verbena blossoms; but the cut-worm can be found. He is hiding there close to the plant he has ruined; generally a little below the surface; waiting to rest himself and digest the chrysanthemum, before he marches off for a change of diet in China asters. I think in most courts, even in our day, his sentence would be:
"Guilty, and not recommended to mercy."
In all such cases, plant again, and do not feel discouraged. There is only a limited number of cut-worms in the world, after all. I thought to myself this morning, when the whole garden was rejoicing over last night's rain, and only one of my poor stocks lay prostrate, that it was just the gentle tax we pay for the support of some of the Lord's creatures – creatures ugly to us, and yet having their appointed place and work in the world; and probably (to a robin's eyes) their beauty. Of course, I would rather pay my tax in something besides gilliflowers; and yet, after all, if it were left to me, what should I choose? A seedling heliotrope? a shoot of my new passion vine? a percentage of phlox? Should I offer Mr. Grub a tuft of my thrifty mignonnette, fast pushing up into fragrance? Could I afford him part of my pansies? No, no, it is better as it is, – he breakfasting where he likes, and I seasoning my breakfast with patience; for you know, though we might like to banish him to the garden behind the house, yet there would be serious inconvenience if he took to living wholly on melons and Lima beans. We don't welcome him, and when he comes we search him out with untiring zeal; but for the rest, we'll just replant and be content.
A few of your pot-plants, – geraniums, myrtle, and the like – may be safely detained in the house until quite late; both to repair such damages, and to replace hyacinths and tulips as they get out of the way. I rarely trouble myself to store crocuses and snowdrops through the summer. If you want them out of the beds, just make a little hole in lawn-turf near the house, drop in a crocus root – or a snowdrop – and cover it up; and so on, till they are all disposed of. They will sleep there, safe and quiet, till the time of the spring awakening; and then bloom out in full loveliness. So with snowflakes and bluebells, or grape-hyacinths as they are called. I think they hardly ever show so well anywhere, as scattered about in the green grass.
If you have pot-plants that are large, you may leave them in the pots and out of the ground all summer. Set them in the barren corners of steps and piazzas, letting them drape (if one may say so) the dreary hues and edges of boards and pillars. Or, if you set them out at all, merely plunge the pots to their full depth in the earth. In either case they need extra attention in dry weather.
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| POT FRAME. |
And roses, as they grow, need frequent training and tying up. Those that send out long slender shoots show best when trained as pillar roses; fastened rather closely to a tall, strong stake, which should be set as near as possible to the main stem of the rose. Thus trained, the little short flowering shoots will start out on every side, and give you a pyramid or column of roses very beautiful indeed. But be careful to set the stake deep and firm; else the first summer gust may turn your pyramid into a pink leaning tower of Pisa, – not at all to be desired, and hard to set straight. Pio Nono is a fine pillar rose, and Camille de Rohan, with its magnificent buds and depth of color; and Lamarque – white and exquisite; while the Duchess of Sutherland is superb if allowed to shape and train itself with the least help; and Salet cannot be improved, and needs only just support enough to hold up its heavy head of sweetness. This last is a "perpetual moss," – lovely in every stage of developement, and fragrant as an ideal rose. Among the more tender kinds (all the above, except Lamarque, are perfectly hardy) you will find Sombriel very near perfection, and Clara Sylvain as dainty and delicate as its name, and Camellia and Agrippina an unfailing source of brilliant crimson and clear white blossoms, the season through. Mme. Falcot will give you plenty of lovely buff buds (the full-blown rose is not so fine) and Douglass is a rich deep red of peculiar shade and beauty. And to go back to the hardy hybrid perpetuals, do not fail to have Jules Margottin among your new roses, when they come.
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| FRAME FOR ROSES, ETC. |
All constant bloomers do best credit to their name if the faded roses are not allowed to remain on the bush. It is not enough to scatter the rose leaves in a pink and white shower upon the grass; the whole rose – calyx and seed-vessel and all – should be snapped off. Better still it is to take a small sharp knife, or pruning scissors, and cut back each flower stem that has lost its treasure, to a point just above the next leaf-bud. From this a new flower shoot will spring out, and your bushes will be in much more constant bloom. In this, or in any other pruning, cut clean and short, not with a long slant.
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| SHORT PRUNING. | SLANT PRUNING. |
If anything has hindered your preventing the attack of the slugs, still wage war on them now. A few leaves may be injured and need clipping off; but whale-oil soap-suds will triumph in the end, and your roses come out all fresh and bright in the latter part of the season.
I planted at the back of some beds where a sort of screen was wanted, a row of gay vines – Ipomœa limbata, and I. kermesina, and the new bright yellow convolvulus, starting them first in the house. They grow well, and promise to cover their rough cedar hedge with beauty. The browner, the rougher your hedge sticks are, the prettier, – so I think. A smooth green carpenter's trellis never sets off the vines to so good effect. Let them wander a little on their way to the top, and they will make all the fairer show.
Flower beds now want daily inspection. In spite of all your care some few seedlings will die; so that one morning you will find a blank in a patch of asters, and next day a vacant place among your stocks, and your regular lines of phlox will become irregular, needing a few new recruits. Then close watching against the weeds is of much importance, and far better than fighting against them. Sorrel and clover and couch grass will make short work with your delicate plants; choking them, starving them to death, making them die of both shade and hunger. For so enwrapt with a coarser nature than its own, the seedling flower can get strength from neither the ground nor the air; can never drink in the dew nor bathe itself in the sunshine. And weeds have a fashion of starting up exactly where your young plants are set; availing themselves of protection, it may be, against hoe and rake, as an army sometimes advances with prisoners at the front. Hoe and rake are, indeed, of little use here; and only inexorable fingers can avail. Nor can these always help making sad work, if the weed is well grown and the flower very young. In such a contingency (which may come up sometimes, even in the best regulated gardens) put the fingers of your left hand close about the stem of the little plant, holding it well down, and then with the right hand root out the weed, using a quiet, steady pull, rather than violence. If the verbena or aster can be thus kept in place, while only the intruder is uprooted, it will probably soon establish itself again and grow on joyously. But if the weed roots have so wrapped it round that it must needs come out too, then you can only replant and water and shade. Take notice here to have your seedling plants quite clear from weeds when you set them out. Let them at least begin all right. Don't trust the innocent green faces of the seedling weeds that sprinkle the surface of the pot earth, pretty as they may look just now. Young chickweed and clover have a power of growing up that is quite astonishing to unsuspicious people.
I remember, as I write, that some great authority – Mr. Henderson, I think – says it is a shame ever to have a visible weed in your garden, – they should all be destroyed before they can be seen. And "true for ye!" – as some of the weed-pullers would say. There never would be a weed seen in my garden, if I had ten men at my disposal. Or ten women. But some of us cannot spend quite all our time in Fairyland.
When clipping off the dead roses, as I have advised, look over those that are just opening, to see what evil-doers may be there. Some rosebug, founding a colony; some green "worm i' the bud," choosing for himself a pink house, which he will straightway turn into a ruin; some leaf-roller, perhaps, tying up the whole end of a young shoot for his own private apartments. If you will take a little trouble with these creatures in time, you never need have much to take.
I have paid heavy taxes this week. For two or three years past I had been trying to raise the climbing fumitory – Adlumia cirrhosa – from seed; and after many failures, last year one plant grew but did not flower. I kept it in the house all winter, not trusting the hardiness of so young a plant, and this spring set it out in the open border. Late frosts came, but did not hurt it; and some new fresh leaves began to replace the faded winter tuft. Then the leaf shoots began to twine, elongating themselves curiously into a sort of tendril. I gave it the help of a bushy cedar stick, and up went my fumitory hand over hand, like Jack's bean with Jack after it. Presently the leading shoot was five feet long, and I began to watch for flower buds.
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| VINE SUPPORT. |
One morning, going out to attend to some other plants near by, I glanced towards my pretty vine, and saw that its delicate leaves were drooping. Not with the sunshine, alas! They were not faint – they were dying. And, yes; just as I thought; the whole vine was cut off at the very root! Not the leading shoot, merely, but every smaller one also, which might have taken its place. And, of course, close to the scene of destruction, barely hid away under the soil – too full to move, was the largest sort of a cut-worm; snugly curled round and reposing after his night's work. Judging from this one specimen, I should say that adlumias have a fattening quality which is quite remarkable.
I left the root of my poor vine, to see if perchance another shoot would spring up; but no, it had lost strength or courage. Then I took it up, and planted Thunbergias, – and didn't much care whether they grew or not!
But oh! what rare Japanese pinks are blooming out now, and what heartsease! And every night Œnothera Lamarckiana opens its lovely blossoms, and my seedling petunias are coming in all sorts of styles. White lily buds are pushing on apace, and Mr. Vick's L. Thunbergianum grandiflorum is opening its rich dark beauty, and Mr. Henderson's lobelia Miss Murphy wins general and loving admiration. The new pyrethrums that I raised last year from seed have been in bloom for weeks, in many tints, – not double, but very showy. The candytuft which I transplanted is in full bloom, and so is the self-sown mignonnette. And if you want a truly beautiful variegated geranium of the zonale class, get Black Hawk.
It is a time for the constant doing of little things, this flowery month of June. The grand spring planning is over, passing fast into results testing its excellence. So also with the spring planting – its bright anticipations, its many hopes. The days, as they roll on, say pleasantly: "Nous avons changé tout cela!" What is left? What has come out of it all?
To begin with, let me say that it is too soon yet for our gardens to be new editions, in many-coloured bindings, of "Great Expectations Realized." You must give even the most industrious and well-intentioned flowers time. Is it nothing, think you, to elaborate such wonderful tints and forms from the colourless air and the dull, brown earth? nothing, to arrange and perfect such a system of roots? nothing, to assimilate all that a plant can, of sunshine and rain and dew? How long does it take you to grow to perfection by that same process of (mental) assimilation?
Therefore do not try to hurry your plants too much, – give them every needed help, every delicate attention; and let them have time, and do you have patience. You must not expect to see your Fairyland what gardeners call a "mass of bloom" so early in the season. If the beds were full now, they would be over-crowded by and by; therefore enjoy the flowers that are out and the growth already made, and be thankful as well as patient. Cannot one wait a little among such troops of roses? Why, my Souvenir Henry Clay is so heavy with bloom that neither stake nor string will hold it. I have tied it again and again. Pio Nono is all in green just now, at the end of the month, gathering strength for a fresh outburst; and Salet bears the last few of its new crop. And the beautiful Mme. Bosanquet blushes always; and Mme. Falcot wears her daily dress of dainty buff; and Mme. Plantier has well-nigh said farewell until another year.
Just over Mme. Falcot rise the tall stems of my excelsum lily, with pendant bells of rosy buff, touched off with anthers of deep orange red. The annunciation lilies (L. candidum) – old, classical, but too pure or too something for most modern gardens – are sweet after their own rare fashion, gleaming out in spotless white; and to my great pleasure, my new L. auratum shews three buds that promise full developement. The first one I planted, promised and failed. This was put in without any manure near it, and does better. L. thunbergianum and L. fulgidum are both past or passing, but both are fine: the first, a dark, gloomy red; the second, red, flushed with orange.
You will think I have forgotten the little things to do, in the great things done.
First of all, then, there are weeds – always weeds – to be nipped long before they reach the bud. Then there are bare spots of earth between your plants, uncovered as yet, and always prone to bake and harden in the June sun. For both of these a small, fine rake is the best cure. Constant working among your plants, with a careful hand, is the greatest possible refreshment to them as well as to you. How easily the dew takes effect upon the softened earth; how surely some sweet and gentle influences find their way into your spirit, if the care-trodden routine of life is broken up and stirred by work among those things which God has made and not man.
"Masses of colour and foliage, and material all summer long for innumerable bouquets."
| Canst thou bind the sweet influences of Pleiades, or loose the bands of Orion? |
| Canst thou lift up thy voice to the clouds, that abundance of waters may cover thee? – Job 38: 31, 34. |
I DO not know how any one can take full comfort in his garden who does not meet the Lord there. If all the little disappointments are to be borne alone; if all the beauties that spring up under your hands bring no thought of the hand that created them, then the garden will be a very shorn place indeed, and you will fail to get from it half its richness. For the loss of a favourite plant makes us rich – and not poor – if it comes as a new, gentle lesson in learning the Lord's will, in accepting his choice instead of our own. That acceptance (it is more than mere submission) makes a thread of perfect gold all through the duskiest life-pattern. And do I think it is in place with such very little things? O yes! – with everything. I had seen very little of life-work when the knowledge first came to me.
I was standing by the river side waiting for my father, who at that time went to town every morning and came home every night. This night he failed to come. I saw the little boat break through the river-shadows with her line of light, I heard the oars dip and work, but the seat in the stern was empty.
Dr. Skinner stood near me on the landing, – stepping about, musing, half whistling, as he often did. Not talking to me, nor seeming to notice me just then at all. Yet perhaps his eye caught my look, or his ear my tone, as I said quietly, –
'He has not come!"
With one of his quick motions Dr. Skinner faced round upon me.
"Are you resigned?' he said. That was all.
I have had greater things to resign since then, but the lesson about little things has never passed away.
How do you manage in this July weather, – sometimes hot, sometimes dry, always uncertain? How do you get along, when "the dust groweth into hardness, and the clods cleave fast together," unless you recognize the Lord's hand in it all, and so accept his work? Easy then it is to wait for "the small rain, and the great rain of his strength;" easy even to bear "the treasures of the hail," if they come; well knowing that the "clouds are numbered in wisdom."
It is not an unmixed pleasure to go over your garden, even in the best of weather. Some blanks will be there, in spite of everything. For instance, this year asters and phlox and gilliflowers – three of my especial pets – have been in the dumps, and not disposed to grow. I planted them out when too small (don't do that), and then was obliged to leave them to look after themselves, (also not to be done. if you can help it).
Then I think the mischievous thrips, too small to trace save by their mischief; being (to quote Carlyle) "like grains of gunpowder – singly contemptible, but highly respectable in mass;" I think they have browsed upon my poor seedlings in preference to older plants. I have sowed both asters and phlox again, for replanting.
It is pretty to note the quickened progress of things, as the season gets fairly under way, and plants begin to realize that if they are to make a show at all, they must be about it. How fast the slender verbena widens out into a spread of beauty – in what a hurry the sweet peas come out; purple and white and painted ladies jostling each other with soft wings! Seedling petunias display their eccentricities, the last one open, having a large white blossom with a deep purple stain in the centre, as if one of my pansies were stationed there on guard. How fairly the geraniums unfold leaf after leaf, like a ship crowding sail as the breeze freshens! By the way, it was a little incautious in me, dealing as I profess to do with things attainable by everybody, to instance Black Hawk of all my geraniums. For that is a twelve-shilling novelty – one that I should not have had myself, but for the open hand of a great florist, who is as generous as he is skilful.
If you would keep your garden from degenerating into very seedy real life, as the summer goes on, you must keep all dead flowers picked off. Sweet peas, for instance, will bloom the season through, unless you let them ripen seed. Then the vines spend all their strength upon the swelling pods, and presently turn yellow at the root, and cease to be a thing of beauty or a joy. So with pinks, so with many other flowers. Some, indeed, take care of themselves, Petunias drop their blossoms and leave no sign that mars the plant, and pansies seem to have strength for everything; but verbenas and geraniums, though they go on blooming, yet soon get a sort of encumbered look if the seed-heads are left on. Of course where the seed is ornamental, and the plant grown chiefly for that, these words do not apply. Honesty (lunaria) must not be shorn of its dead flower stems, and the ornamental gourds must be left to perfect their fruit. But as a general thing you never need fear to pick your flowers with the greatest freedom; you will have all the more left. It is the very way to make them bloom, a friend of mine used to say; and she was one famous both for picking and having. It holds good in many departments, from the days of Bunyan down:
"There was a man (though some did count him mad),
The more he cast away, the more he had."
And so while some plants – and people – live a stinted, dry, bloomless life, others, through constant imparting of their riches, are all blossom and fragrance. "They shall still bring forth fruit in old age; they shall be fat and flourishing."
You can if you choose leave a few pods for seed, if you wish to save your own. But generally enough will ripen in hiding places, tucked away out of sight among the foliage, to answer all your needs; and in the case of sweet peas, the seed is so cheap that even this is of little consequence. Mignonnette seed you must gather from time to time, choosing those capsules that shew dark grains within their small open mouths. And pansy seed you must watch for, – the seed-vessels burst wide apart almost before the seed is ripe, scattering it hopelessly. Sweet peas have a trick of doing this, too; and phlox, and balsams; and some people recommend