A Garden with House Attached

All the begonias thrive well as house plants. My experience with the new and choice varieties has not been sufficient to enable me to give valuable advice in regard to their culture. I had formerly supposed that a north window might suit a begonia. It was a mistaken impression. The plant, I find, needs sunlight and a warm atmosphere. It must be regularly and carefully watered, and I have found it best to give the small-leaved begonia its water from the saucer. The smooth-leaved begonias are said to affect a Sunday morning cup of coffee by way of gloss to their foliage. I have seen a superb one thus treated, but have never tried the experiment. The plant likes an occasional watering with soot tea while making its summer growth in the garden.

The coleus, as a window plant, affords fine color effects, but the plant is too tender to be agreeable for house-culture. It requires an invariably high temperature, a fair amount of sunlight, regular moisture, and very rich soil. This given it will grow superbly, but if overtaken, in some unguarded hour, with the slightest chill, it loses its beauty and vigor. The house coleus is almost sure to become infested with mealy-bugs. These may be picked off, and thereafter the plant should be given a careful wash of kerosene water, which must be repeated as often as the pests appear. The formula for this spray, which is used for roses at Mount Auburn, was thus given me by an expert. It is simply one wine-glass of kerosene oil to a gallon of water.

Ferns, as decorative plants, are beautiful and easily grown, though all do not succeed with the maidenhair. All ferns should have an abundance of light, but not too much sun. I have found an eastern exposure the very best possible. Ferns should be placed in the full light of a window, given a high temperature and watered evenly, but not too much. The soil should be partially renewed annually, and care should be taken with the roots, which do not like disturbance; especially is this to be observed with the maidenhair, which, if possible, should never be transplanted, and should have its stated period of entire rest, during which it should be kept almost dry. The fuchsia is, properly, an out-door bloomer, but with care can be brought to flower in winter. To this end, pinch back in summer, and in September house, and place in a north or east window. Give much light, water freely with warm water, and give liquid manure and soot tea about twice a week. If given an entire window both flower and foliage will be superb, with this treatment. Time would fail me to enumerate all the desirable plants for house-culture; there is the orange tree, the costly palm, the delicate asparagus, the achyranthes, anthericum, and curculigo, the aspidistra, cyclamen, and many more equally beautiful and practicable, and last, but not least, the inevitable rubber plant, a little stiff and heavy perhaps, but as a single plant decidedly effective. In arranging a table or stand of mixed plants, care should be taken to give each its proper growing place without marring the general effect. Heliotrope, that ardent sun-lover, should have the front row, close to the window-glass. Beside it should sit a begonia or two, and some flowering geraniums. A petunia and a bridal-rose might come next – the petunia twined among the others to hide its scraggy limbs. A nicotiana, well in the light, might make the evenings sweet with its perfume, and if the room be not over-warm, a pot of mignonette might sweeten the air by day, and at night be removed to cooler quarters. In the "middle aisle" an achyranthes or two may stand with sunlight sifting through its fiery leaves, which have thus all the color-effect of blossoms without their perishability. Further back, anthericum may flourish, with curculigo spreading queenly its fluted palm-like leaves, and always craving moisture. And in the "pauper's pew" Wandering Jew will contentedly sit, like charity, kindly covering the entire defects of staring pots that needs must hold its betters; and on the floor, at the foot of all, aspidistra may seem to "choose darkness rather than light." If you need a growing amaryllis or two to eke out your foliage display, they will take a shady place, though to bring them into flower you need a strong, steady sunlight.

Nicotiana, or tobacco plant, is another fragrant and desirable plant. It thrives in about the same soil as the heliotrope, but needs an entirely different exposure, being one of the few plants that flower perfectly in a sunless window. Experimenting with the nicotiana as a house plant, I found that in a south window the plant was not robust, was scant of bloom, and the flowers quite perishable in comparison with the blossoms in a north window, where the plants grew to a height of more than five feet, and, together, produced one hundred and fifty-six flowers. Through the entire winter no ray of sunlight reached them. They were trained on stout strings quite close to the glass of a double window, kept moist, and given an even temperature of from sixty-five to seventy degrees, and were watered well with liquid manure.

At evening the blossoms expand, and all through the night it is as if the room were

"Perfumed from an unseen censer, swung by angels."

Among the sweet-scented tribe mignonette ranks high as an out-door plant, and as a window bloomer it is exquisite. It rarely outlives transplanting, but may be sown in pots about mid-summer, and pinched back for the house. Another method is to obtain the plant from the florist when in bud. The cost is trifling, and if kept cool and in a sunny window, it will continue in bloom for weeks. Mignonette needs much sunlight, but not too high a temperature, and the plant is much weakened by a single day's omission in watering.

Another – now almost obsolete – fragrant house plant is the night-blooming jasmine. Its odor is peculiar and intense, and – as its name implies – is only emitted by night. Its foliage is not especially delicate, but nothing can be more dainty than its slender spikes of pale, greenish-white bloom. It is a thrifty plant, making in a single summer a growth of five or six feet. It is a shrub, but one could fancy that, ages ago, it must have been a "sport" of a climber, so slender and rapid is its habit of growth. After flowering-time, which begins late in July and continues until late in October, it drops most of its foliage, which is soon replaced by young, delicate shoots and fresh leaves and buds.

The Daphne odora, which combines in its small clusters of bloom the exquisite perfume of many sweet flowers, may not be lightly passed by. It is not an easy plant to manage, and often drops its buds just as they seem ready to open. By placing it in the sunny window of a cool room, and watering evenly and not too copiously, it may be brought into flower; and then nothing can be finer than its fragrance.

The more homely and familiar hyacinth is not only delightful in form, color, and odor, but may be recommended as a "safe investment," as it seldom fails to flower and needs comparatively little care.

The mahernia is another desirable fragrant plant. It is very effective in a hanging-basket. It comes in flower about the first of February, and its tiny yellow cups are brimful of delicious odor. A home-bred mahernia makes fine foliage, but seldom blooms abundantly; it is, therefore, best to procure the plant from the florist when fully budded. It will then flower well in a sunny window, and for three or four weeks one's room will be as sweet as summer. The wax-plant, though properly a summer blooming plant, sometimes flowers in winter. Its blossoms are very odorous, especially by night, and in structure and color they are exquisite. It is a long-lived plant, easily raised and tended, and, being a climber, may be tastefully trained on a trellis, where, with its glossy, rubber-like leaves, it is very effective. The petunia, as a window plant, blooms freely, and the white variety is fragrant – especially by night. The plant is rather ungainly in its habit of growth. To conceal its scragginess of structure twine its stems among other foliage on your stand, and place it close to the glass, and you will find it pretty and effective. And now that sweet-smelling plants are under consideration, may I not give you the details of an experiment with the common lilac as a house plant? It was made some fifteen years ago, and before I had the slightest knowledge of lilac-forcing, which is now quite common among our florists.

Early in December a stout, low bush of the hardy purple variety was, with the aid of a pickaxe, dislodged from the frost-bound earth, and with its frozen ball of sod still adhering, thus treated: a large nail-keg, having an auger-hole in its bottom on which some bits of crock were strewn, was filled to about half its depth with warm stable manure; on this the dry leafless bush, with its frozen soil, was set, and the keg filled in with mellow loam. After a good watering, the keg was placed in a deep pan, which was then filled with boiling water, and the whole set near a huge hall stove. The hot water was daily renewed at the bottom, and before many days leaf and flower-buds began to swell on the hard, bare stems of the bush. When these were well formed and the tiny buds quite distinguishable among the pale green foliage, the lilac was removed from its dim corner beside the stove, and given an entire east window in the long hall, where the temperature ranged from forty to sixty, and sometimes as high as seventy degrees. In about two months from the time of housing fourteen large and perfect clusters of pearl-white lilacs rejoiced our eyes. These blossoms were far more delicate in odor than out-door lilacs, and made a delightful atmosphere of spring-time in the homely old farm-house which was then our dwelling-place. We had, too, the novel pleasure of surprising our friends with clusters of fresh lilac in February.

French florists, who give much attention to lilac-forcing, lay great stress upon the necessity of keeping the bush in the dark in order to bleach the flowers – white lilacs being most marketable, and the common purple lilac most available for forcing on account of its superior vitality. Fortunately I stumbled upon the right treatment, and mine seemed to come white of their own sweet will.

For a hanging-basket use the oxalis, of which there are many beautiful varieties. It flowers abundantly, but as the season advances, must be stimulated with repeated applications of liquid manure and soot tea, that its foliage may not lose its vigor and become straggly. Wandering Jew, though structurally coarse, is a good hanging plant, and will accommodate itself to any exposure, really doing its very best in a north window. Ivy geranium is another hanging plant, beautiful in structure, and with its double rose-pink blossoms, as in the improved varieties, most fair to see. It demands strong food, much moisture, and oceans of sunlight. Madeira vine and German ivy both make effective hanging-baskets. The latter is too alluring to the green fly to make its house-culture easy or satisfactory. Smilax, if trained on strings, in a sunny window, is exquisitely delicate, and its blossom is odorous. The English ivy, as in-door greenery, is delightful. I have attempted its culture, but my experience being but a series of ignoble defeats, is not commendable. I wish it were! The odious scale has at last compelled me to abandon the field. I must also confess to repeated failure with in-door geraniums. Mine have not bloomed well, and a geranium without its blossoms is a poor affair (not including the scented varieties). Last autumn, after having tried many methods with many kinds, I turned over a new leaf in geranium culture. All my best geraniums were consigned to an upper room, where no furnace heat could reach them, and where, in cold nights, the temperature falls perilously near to freezing point. The plants have a southern window, and through the day the room is moderately warmed from the ascending heat of the kitchen. Geraniums (and fuchsias and nasturtiums as well) have taken kindly to this low temperature, the geraniums blooming as finely as in the open during summer. Many of us have, no doubt, seen floating about in print, the little story of that pot of geranium which was the sole bequest of a dying man to his family, who carefully tended this precious, though not pecuniarily valuable legacy. When spring came the pot was reverently committed to the cemetery lot to summer close beside the grave of the buried husband and father. On removing it in autumn, the plant was found to have outgrown its quarters, and was tenderly dislodged for repotting. To the great surprise of these good people a hollow false bottom was found in the original pot, and on its removal a little fortune in bank notes was disclosed, which, as the story ran, had obligingly kept themselves intact for the heirs in this odd storing-place. This tale has been cited of late by a scientific floriculturist, as evidence of the deplorable ignorance of the common mind in regard to absolutely necessary conditions for growth demanded by a plant. "A geranium," he authoritatively tells us, "cannot exist without drainage, hence an account which asserts that one has for months survived the ordeal of a tight-bottom pot can have no foundation in fact." So we have been taught, but, alas for the infallibility of time-honored theories! In the material world new discoveries are continually upsetting old conclusions; and we are now told that our geraniums and fuchsias have a natural affinity for tight-bottomed tomato cans! The finest geranium in my present collection has the proud distinction of growing in a water-tight lard kettle. Though a young and blooming plant, it was held in light esteem by its owner because of a vicious tendency to magenta, and in the autumn, no pot being at hand, was given this apparently thin chance of survival. Not only has it carried its buds and blossoms straight on through the entire winter, but it has graciously overcome its perversity in the matter of color, changing from a glaring magenta to a deep and lovely rose. In the same group is a large white geranium three years old, which, after blooming all summer in the garden, has never once, throughout the winter, been out of bud and blossom. This well-behaved plant grows in an old butter tub which stands squarely on its "own" sound "bottom," unmutilated by gimlet or auger. The plant had, in late winter, ten clusters of bud and bloom, while its small neighbor of the lard kettle had six. A nasturtium, in the same window, flowers abundantly, and a fuchsia beside it is a paragon among plants. All these have had weekly applications of manure water and soot tea, and have not been kept over-wet. Especially is this true of the geraniums – which may, perhaps, partly explain their dispensing with drainage. The finest hyacinth I have ever grown in the house perfected in a handleless fancy pitcher which had no outlet at the bottom. Having no pot of the right size, some lumps of charcoal were thrown into this make-shift affair, the soil tossed in, and the bulb, not without serious misgivings, carefully planted. It flowered late, but its foliage was abundant and its bloom exquisite. It gave me five perfect rose-colored spikes. These all, in common with my other plants (excepting ferns and aspidistras) were well fed with liquid manure and soot tea, and, in potting, a little wood ashes was added to the soil.

That very old-fashioned plant, the bridal-rose, is a free winter bloomer, and has a kindly way of sending up a perpetual supply of shoots for one's neighbors and friends. But, taking roses altogether, they are not profitable house plants. The constant battle with insect pests is fatiguing, and one cannot spray and fumigate and spray and fumigate incessantly, as the florist does. Now and then, after hard labor, virtue has its reward in the shape of an exquisite rose or two, but even then, "the play is scarce worth the candle."

The same may be said of carnations, which not only teem with insects, but require a much lower temperature than we have in our living rooms, as also do winter violets.

As to the finer uses of house plants, I have but time to suggest, in conclusion, that whoever cultivates them from sheer material satisfaction in their growth, from mere pleasure in their structural perfection, or with an eye single to their market value (as a florist naturally must), overlooking their poetical – I had almost said their religious side – has grasped but a small portion of the delight to be derived from floriculture, and has wholly missed that divine inspiration, that mental help, which emanates from "a thing of beauty" and makes it "a joy forever."

CHAPTER V

At Easter-time

April was two weeks old. Already Passion-week had come. Easter-time would soon begin. Crocuses dotted the short new grass on the lawn. Mated robins chose nesting places in the old orchard, and the big cherry tree had put on its crown of snow-tipped buds.

On that cheery spring morning – wheeled out for her daily airing – "The Lady" looked expectantly at the bulbs' circles, where the newly uncovered hyacinths and tulips – pushing vigorously up for the sun's warm kisses – already showed bud and leaf of pale tender green.

Dear patient Lady! Would that God had spared her to see another "Spring put on its bloom," but ere the day had done He called her to the

"Immortal gardens where angels are the wardens."

With scarce a pang, her tired old heart ceased beating.

It had been the fancy of this dear cousin of my husband to select me among her relatives as the superintendent of her funeral – to "lay her away," as she quaintly expressed it – and it had long been impressed upon me that I must "save myself" for that responsible trust. Often when I came over from Cambridge to share her mid-day meal, she looked compassionately at my tired face, as I arranged the big basket of flowers brought for her vases (among which she especially doted on the pansies, with their charming variety of color), and holding up a warning finger, said discouragedly: "Cousin, you over-work. Take more rest, or you will pass on before me, and then, who will lay me away?"

And so it was, that on Easter Sunday – not altogether without that "pomp and circumstance" which, from time immemorial, had attended the Mansion House funerals – I arranged her burial. With the sweet spring air coming in at the open sunny window – flowers perfuming and brightening the house and clasped loosely in her folded hands, and with so sweet a smile upon her lips that it half seemed a welcome to the neighbors and friends who looked their last upon her benignant face, still untouched by "the finger of decay" – I gave her grudgingly to the cold dark grave, where among her dear kindred (in a self-chosen site) we laid her – "ashes to ashes, dust to dust."

The simple head-stone appointed by herself marks the spot; it holds this tender legend, prepared by one who knew her:

"Her life was sweet with charity and patience."

I like to fancy her "homing shade" still, in the long summer afternoons, haunting the old garden of her love; watching, as of old, the flitting of butterflies, listening to the glad singing of birds, and marking upon the lawn the lovely shadows lengthen in the west'ring sun.

"Only the forgotten are dead."

CHAPTER VI

Burglar-proof

That strain in the New England make-up which manifests itself in "taking care of things" ran in the blood of the dear Lady.

Her provident forbears – intent upon "getting the best" of any burglar bent upon the acquisition of the family silver – had protected many of the first floor windows with prison-like bars of iron. Later on, when the "Conservatory," with its long southern exposure of glass, had been added to the Mansion, there arose the necessity of some invincible protection of that quarter from midnight prowlers.

To this end, Jacobs – the family carpenter – was called in. This good man having constructed six stout wooden trellises – all precisely alike – they were set along the southern flower border, giving upon the exposed glass stretch of conservatory.

In front of these trellises were planted six thrifty young "Akebia Quinata" vines– funereal of flower, and dense and clover-like in foliage. These greedy feeders, gradually crowding out the more dainty flowering perennials, were ultimately joined by a tangled growth of coarse encroaching shrubs and vigorous self-sown saplings, the whole interlaced by a strong poison-ivy vine.

Meantime, the outer door of the conservatory had but the protection of a common lock, at which, as we all know, any enterprising burglar would derisively snap his capable fingers. Be that as it may, the dear Lady found in this leafy barricade her chief defense against midnight robbery.

Now that the conservatory was to be widened and made into a piazza – early one May morning, during the "Third Son's" week of vacation, he put his capable shoulder to the wheel, along with that of the "Man with the Hoe" – who, like the Sexton in Cock Robin, equipped with "his little spade and shovel," fell upon this tangled border.

Although in most respects a very lion of valor, the "Man" would run like a frighted girl from a troop of Yellow Jackets – and before Poison Ivy he "shook in his shoes."

So work was delayed while he went for his pruning gloves, and thus armed and equipped, came stoutly to the onset.

And now carefully removing the few bulbs of Japan Lily that year after year found strength to hold their own on the outskirts of this jungle, the two fell mightily on the trellised vines, the shrubs, the young trees, and the insidious ivy, and when the town clock that day told the hour of noon, the "burglar barricade" was among the things that had been, and were not; and the unharmful ashes of poison ivy lay blackened on its funeral pyre. Since the dear Lady had gone where the burglar ceases from troubling, we held it no disrespect to her honored memory to demolish the "barricade" preparatory to the widening of the old conservatory, and the turning of the whole into a roomy piazza – where, all summer long, one may take after-dinner coffee and naps, may read, write, and sew, have afternoon tea with friend or neighbor – breathing, meantime, invigorating out-door air.

And now began the earnest work of "putting to rights" the entire garden; and if in this little account of that undertaking (without adding one iota to the reader's botanical knowledge) I may furnish some useful hints to the amateur, and may, incidentally, entertain with such various bits of information in regard to the works and ways of flowering plants, the origin and fitness of their names, and their relations to human life, as come of the "reading of many books," and so encourage in my fellow-woman that habit of spending much time "with body and with spirit," in "God's out-of-doors," which is one of Van Dyke's beautiful steps "in the footpath of peace," my end in making this book will be well attained.

CHAPTER VII

Perennials

To begin with the hardy perennials – which, to be effective, should be in a border of their own. At the outset, this should be made free of stones, then mellow the earth as far down as two feet. At the bottom put in about one foot of well-seasoned manure. Now add leaf-mold, a little peat, a sprinkling of wood ashes, and a top layer of sifted garden loam. If the soil be clayey, add some fine pure sand, to keep it friable.

Seeds of perennials are naturally slow in germinating – their time of coming up being a period varying from one week to two months. It may here be stated that all perennial plants undergo a period of rest. It is not certain that this "rest" is in any sense a recuperation. It is supposed to be a hereditary trait induced by natural environment – a means by which the plant resists untoward circumstances of climate. In the tropics, plants rest during dry seasons, in much the same manner as during our Northern winters.

Investigations – so far – show that this hereditary trait has not been entirely overcome by culture. Any attempt of the cultivator to ignore this resting period is apt to injure the plant, from the fact that any energy used in abnormal development may be subtracted from subsequent growth or development.

Before I had taken this "old-time garden" in hand – fashioning new borders, and freeing the old from encumbering jungles – many plants, both annual and perennial, had, no doubt, found place in it as before stated. Groups of blue-eyed periwinkle still held their own among usurping forces. A discouraged day-lily looked forlornly out of the tangle, where year by year a courageous double English violet shyly perfected a blossom or two. Here and there a straggling bush of blush roses reached out for the June sunshine, and, to my delight, I found – half strangled among the over-growth – my old acquaintance, a pink flowering almond. The dear old thing was "on its last legs." We carefully removed it to kindlier quarters.