A Garden with House Attached

A Sweetbriar – rifled years ago from the wildwood – after a fourth transplanting knew three summers of thrifty growth in its latest home, and then gave up, without notice, the experiment of being cultivated. Not so a sturdy wilding brought all the way from Maine, as a dear souvenir of happy seaside "days that are no more." It still accommodates itself to Massachusetts soil and bears with fortitude the exigencies of Massachusetts "culchure."

Last and best is my heart's joy – the white rose of my childhood.

It has never revealed to me the secret of its botanic name; I simply know it as the "White Rose."

Fifty years ago its sister roses might have been found in many dooryards – side by side with ragged pink cinnamon roses – thriving untended, loaded with bloom, and covering the low fronts of roadside farm-houses. Its flowers are lovely in form, with creamy petals, and just the faint suspicion of a blush at their heart.

Its odor is all its own – a strong, chaste, wholesome scent, yet sweet withal as the "honey of Hymettus."

All my life long it had been the desire of my heart to have a bush of this old-time white rose in my very own garden. Time after time I had bought and planted it, but to watch it die; at last, when half a century of my life had gone, it surprised me in the Cambridge garden! The bush had evidently seen its best days, and when we moved to The Lilacs opinions varied as to the wisdom of transplanting so old a settler. We could but try, and so we tried and succeeded. The big scraggly bush is (ten years after) bravely holding its own, and summer after summer scantily bearing the same dear old roses. A second bush, propagated from the parent root, has been put in our Mt. Auburn burying lot. It is one of my idle fancies to have a white rose tree near my grave. Surely when "petals of its blown roses" fall upon the grass above my head

"My heart will hear them and beatTho' lain for a century dead."

And now it is on my conscience that, in this authentic history, I have not yet confessed my disgraceful failure with Perpetual Roses. In the little bed, started ten years ago, but six decadent specimens now "hold the fort."

I cannot state whether this shameful fact is the result of unfitness of soil, mistaken pruning, insufficient winter protection, or simply the malice of opposing Fate.

Innumerable "Rose-grower's Guides" have been consulted in regard to loam, manure, and phosphates since I made this venture. Naturally, then, the soil cannot be greatly at fault, and as to "winter protection" I have, as directed, stacked the bushes in straw, covered the ground with good manure, topped by a covering of leaves held in place by strips of board. This failing, I have tried omitting the stacking, and using manure, leaves, and boards, and finally have fallen back on manure and leaves as a permanent "winter arrangement." In regard to pruning I have consulted many authorities, but "who shall decide when doctors disagree?"

My Perpetuals have been pruned in early spring, at mid-summer, and in autumn – have been pruned a little and pruned a good deal, and with the same dreary result, and my ultimatum is —prune not at all.

This final decision is in direct opposition to the convictions of "The Man with the Hoe," who, once the pruning shears are in his hand, is prone to emulate the insatiate old fellow of the New England Primer, commended to our childish attention by this awesome couplet:

"Time cuts down all,Both great and small."

This propensity to "trim things up" is the one flaw in the character of this useful person. On such days as he takes up his shears I follow anxiously in his wake, and with mild remonstrance stay his ruthless hand.

So many Perpetuals have, first and last, lived out their little day in my garden that my poor brain refuses the task of recalling their names. Of the six bushes that still survive, two are Jacques, one an unreliable pink rose (name forgotten), which blooms when "so dispoged," usually drops its shrunken buds right and left, and, if quite convenient, perfects annually two or three lovely flowers of delicate pink and of marvelous size.

Next in order are the two cherished white roses, the gift of a kind neighbor, that, regardless of early frosts, bear their pretty clusters up to the very last days of October. Lastly comes the tall thrifty bush procured years ago along with five sister bushes in the prize collection of a florist; the latter all died young. I cannot recall the name of the survivor, nor tell its color, for never once has it put forth bud or bloom. Hope, however, dies hard in the plant-lover's breast. Like the scriptural proprietor of the barren fig tree I still "dig about and dung" this incorrigible rose.

Last year I sowed Single Dahlias in the bare spaces in this untoward rose bed, and when these and the two obliging white roses blossomed together I looked with complacency upon the effect and thanked Heaven that matters were no worse. Meantime my flower-loving neighbor, summer after summer, is bringing Perpetual Roses into perfect bloom – red roses, pink roses, and roses of waxy whiteness – large, fragrant, and altogether exquisite! To walk among his Tea Roses and sniff the scented air is like going out to "afternoon tea." The fine foliage of his bushes (in itself only less beautiful than their bloom) is the result of neither hellebore, insect powder, nor emulsion, but is simply kept immaculate with pure cold water. At early morning the bushes are vigorously showered. At nightfall the ever-ready hose is again in play. Under this heroic treatment the red spider gives up the fight and hostile insects of every variety hide their diminished heads. For the rest I think this marvelous success (which extends to every plant, shrub, and tree in his garden) is mainly due to a wise understanding of their individual needs, a fond love of them all, and a never-tiring patience. I have never cared for the Standard Roses. Like boys walking on stilts their performance is odd, but unbecoming.

From Isaiah's day to our own the Rose has been well praised by poets. Here are some of the many stanzas, lines, and couplets that celebrate this beautiful Queen:

"The desert shall blossom as the rose."– Isaiah.

Before the Hebrew poet sung Eve was thus pictured in paradise:

"Veiled in a cloud of fragrance where she stoodHalf-spied, so thick the roses blushing roundAbout her glowed."– Milton."Gather ye rosebuds while ye may;Old Time is still a-flying,And that same flower that smiles todayTomorrow may be dying."– Herrick."What's in a name? That which we call a roseBy any other name would smell as sweet.""But earthlier happy is the rose distilledThan that which, withering on the virgin stem,Grows, lives, and dies, in single blessedness."– Shakespeare."Die of a rose in aromatic pain."– Pope."The budding rose above the rose full blown."– Wordsworth."The rose is sweetest washed with morning dew."– Scott."As though a rose should shut and be a bud again."– Keats.

"You may place a hundred handfuls of fragrant herbs and flowers before the nightingale, yet he wishes not in his constant heart for more than the sweet breath of his beloved rose." —Janie.

There is an Eastern legend telling that when Paradise was fading from earth an angel plucked and saved a single rose, which from that day has transmitted to its kind an immortal fragrance.

No other flower has so many intimate relations to our humanity. It goes to the altar with the bride – to the tomb with the dead. Young happy hearts rejoice at its coming, and aged pulses ("slowed down" by Time's relentless hand) quicken anew with memories of long-past Junes. In the primal garden Eve herself must have given it its lovely, fitting name, and Juliet was wrong – by no "other" would it "smell as sweet."

CHAPTER X

Border Bulbs

The Salvias, grouped in the perennial border, make a fine color show. Coming when the earlier brightness of the season has passed, their scarlet clumps last from late August to the time of frost. Raised from seed their flowering season is briefer, and, as the plants are comparatively inexpensive, it is well to get their full worth by setting out well-grown Salvia plants in early June.

The Gladiolus is another effective flower, and should find place in the perennial borders. Plant bulbs about the middle of May, and again in July, and thus secure a long flowering time, as a light frost does no harm to the plant. Gladiolus prefers a light loam, or a moist sandy soil. Fresh manure will prove injurious. Mr. Allen tells us, in his book on "Bulbs, etc.," that "flowering bulbs of this plant may be produced from seed with a certainty of a greater variety and a chance for some remarkable forms. There is," declares he, "no other pleasure in gardening equal to that which comes from the growing of Gladiolus from seed." It is claimed for the Gladiolus that if cut for decorative use when the first flower on the stalk opens the spike will develop better in water than if left out in the open sun. I have no experimental knowledge of this assertion. Take up early in October, and store bulbs in cellar.

"The Gladiolus belongs to the genera Iridaceæ. The genus contains about ninety species, nearly all of which are natives of the Cape of Good Hope."

The Tuberose may be used in the garden with the same effect as the Gladiolus. Mexico is the land of its nativity, and two species make up the genus. In a quaint old book published in 1629 and entitled "The Garden of Pleasant Flowers" it is classed with the "Greater Indian Knobbed Hyacinth." "I have," says Parkinson (an old-time author), "thought it best to begin with this Jacinth (Hyacinth) because it is the greatest and highest, and also because the flowers hereof are in some likeness neare unto a Daffodille, although his root be tuberous, and not bulbous, as the rest are. The Indian Jacinth hath a thicke knobbed roote, yet formed into several heades, somewhat like unto bulbous rootes, with many thick fibres at the bottom of them. The toppes of the stalkes," he goes on to inform us, "are garnished with many faire, large, white flowers, each whereof are composed of six leaves, lying spread open as the flowers of the white Daffodille, with some short threads in the middle, and of a very sweet scent, or rather strong and headey."

As may be seen in the above statement the Tuberose was first known as a "Jacinth" (Hyacinth) and was at that time a single flower. The double variety was raised as a seedling by M. Le Cour of Leyden, in Holland, who for many years would not under any circumstances part with a root of it. Even if after propagating a desired quantity, there was a surplus, he would cause every tuber to be cut in pieces and destroyed, in order to be the only possessor of so valuable a plant, and one which he considered the finest in the world.

The Tuberose is a gross feeder, and succeeds best in light loam, but will grow in any moist rich soil.

Its complete requisites are heat, water, and manure. If these are proportionate, no matter how much there may be, the plant will consume it.

And here is an incident in Tuberose culture (backed by good authority) where Nature, scorning slower methods of evolution, "got on a hustle" and produced a new variety on the spot. I copy it verbatim from Mr. Allen's book: "In 1870 John Henderson of Flushing, N. Y. (a Tuberose cultivator), discovered growing in his field a number of plants of strong habit of growth, and with dark broad foliage. These he determined to keep apart from his main stock in order to see what the result would be.

"Cultivating them in the same manner as his other Tuberose bulbs he discovered a distinct type of dwarf habit and much larger flowers. This he at once named the 'Pearl,' and from the then small stock the trade in what is known as 'Excelsior Pearl' is now wholly supplied. The Pearl is the favorite of the buyer, and takes the first place in the seedsman's catalogue."

The Single Dahlia, flowering as it does after the early summer beauties have had their day, is an inexpensive "stop-gap" for the perennial border. One may plant, in late April, kept-over bulbs or propagate from seed sown first of May, and sure to flower the same year. The Nicotiana, though an annual, may be used freely in the perennial border. It is an evening bloomer and opens an hour or two before sunset, and looks and smells its divinest by the light of the full round moon. The young plants take kindly to removal, and may, with care, be changed from seed bed to border while flowering.

CHAPTER XI

Annuals

A well-ordered garden is, in a measure, dependent upon the annuals, coming in bloom (as they do) after most of the perennials have had their short summer hour.

As February days lengthen the seedsman's catalogues come pouring in.

Turning a resolute back on the allurements and temptations of "Prize Collections" I find it safer to pin my hopes to some well-tried seedsman, and selecting in accordance with experience and the length of my purse, send in an early order. Time was when I anticipated the season by starting, in early March, window boxes of asters, petunias, cosmos, and nasturtiums; experience has since taught me to await the slower seed time appointed for me by wise Mother Nature and sow in the open about the first week in May. The nasturtiums and sweet peas may be soaked over night and put in earlier, the latter the moment frost is out of the ground, the former about mid-April.

If one can command a cold frame still earlier sowing of transplantable annuals is desirable. Seedlings thus raised are hardier than window growths and may be set in the open bed before May is over; with the house-sown annual one loses more of vigor than is gained by "forehandedness."

Most annuals may be sown in the seed bed, which is the necessary appendage to the show beds – indeed, all excepting the cosmos and poppy, which cannot well bear removal. The transplanting may be done late in June, and, indeed, if a cloudy day be chosen for the work, on any afternoon throughout the summer. I have found that not only annuals but herbaceous plants, vines, and even shrubs may be moved at one's convenience without regard to the popular idea which restricts one to spring and fall transplanting. My own method is – first, have a coolish cloudy day, then dig holes and put oceans of water in them. Having made the soil of the seedling quite wet one may keep a little ball of it about the plant. Cover quickly with moist loam, then screen from sun with newspaper, a big basket, or a box in which airholes have been made, and keep well-watered until apparently rooted. A few high-growing annuals, as marigolds, coxcombs, zinnias, and four-o'clocks, may be used with effect in the empty spaces in perennial beds, where Oriental poppies and candidums have died down and have had their stalks cut. For this purpose let not the stiff-necked zinnia be despised. Easy of culture, ready to move at any date, and without a moment's notice and (if one save seed) in such cheap abundance that the undesirable colors and shades may be pulled up as soon as the blossom shows its face and cast aside with the weeds. The dreadful magentas are never once permitted a foothold in my garden; the whites, yellows, true pinks, salmon-pinks, and bright scarlets are all effective.

That out-of-date annual, dear to our grandmothers, the Four-O'Clock should find a place in the perennial border. As will be inferred from its name, it is an afternoon bloomer. "Motley is its wear," and its color surprises more than repays one for the pains of raising. It has a faint delicate odor all its own, recalling the enchanted gardens of one's childhood, and that time of day when "school was out," and one went skipping home to pull nosegays. I lack space to give here the long list of desirable annuals.

Most of these are low-growing and look best in their own beds, as Mignonette, Lady Slipper, Escholzia, Poppies, and so on. Centaurea (Bachelor's Button) should especially have an entire bed to itself.

Mrs. Pratt tells us that in Germany it has been brought from the field to the garden bed, and by the gardener's skill has increased the number of its flowerets, and sometimes varied their hue.

"It is the pet of the German ladies, who have given it the pretty name of Bluet. With us it is sometimes known as the 'Corn Flower.'"

The Centaurea, according to Pliny, "is that famous hearbe wherewith Charon, the Centaure, as the report goeth, was cured; at what time having entertained Hercules in his cabin he would needs be handling and tampering with the weapons of his said guest so long, untille one of the arrows light upon his foote and wounded him dangerously."

To this legend the plant may probably refer its name.

Some of the low-growing annuals may effectively border the show beds where late in May the geraniums are set on the removal of spring bulbs, which I find it best to lift and dry off for fall planting.

Clumps of Narcissi and Daffodils may remain permanently in the borders to make their summer growth, and the half-grown bulbs may be put in beds made in some out-of-the-way place for their especial propagation.

In central positions on the lawn build raised circles for show bulbs; border with stone. Avoid turf borders, which imply a continual fight with tough grass roots.

Have good loam, sifted fine, and well enriched with old cow manure. Make holes four inches deep, and put in each a sprinkling of fine sand to prevent the bulb coming in direct contact with manure in the soil. Plant bulbs in October, but do not cover with the final dry leaves and pine boughs until the very last of November, and be sure to uncover in spring as soon as the young sprouts push up for the sun.

In summer, with two or three choice cannas in the center, some bright geraniums, and coleuses next, and a filling out of asters, petunias, and low Drummond Phlox from the seed bed, the circles will make a lovely show of color up to the very last day of summer and all through the month of September, and, on their groundwork of green lawn, be indeed fair to see. In back places of the garden sow seed for flower-cutting; among the best of these is the "White Branching Aster," the single Dahlia, and (if one can bring enough of these beauties into bloom) the white Cosmos.

The yellow Daffodil, although in our climate it does not, as in Shakespeare's England, is among the earliest of our spring flowers and laughs our raw east winds to scorn.

"Come before the swallow dares

And take the winds of March with beauty,"

"Yellow," says Mrs. Jameson, "symbolizes the goodness of God." We cannot be better reminded of this divine attribute than by the Daffodil's smiling face looking up to us from the edge of perennial beds. The single white variety of Narcissi, known as Poet's Narcissus, must, I think, be the identical flower into which the vain beautiful youth of mythological notoriety (enamored of his own image reflected in a fountain) was changed. The gods did well by him. To this day it makes our May-time sweet, and as a cut flower it is perfection itself. Later, as the plants die down, one can remove its dead tops and sow Shirley Poppies above the bulbs, while they increase beneath and get ready for the next "spring opening."

The Asphodel of the Greek poets, by some declared to be the Day Lily, is by others supposed to be the Narcissus Poeticus.

The Tulip, as a bulb, is historically famous. It was brought to Europe from Persia in 1559 and was cultivated at Constantinople. From this city it found its way over Europe under the name of the Turkish Tulip.

About a century after its first introduction it became, as we know, the object of commercial speculation. It is said that enormous prices were paid for a single bulb, and that as much as $3,000 was offered and refused in one instance. Speculators were even more excited and reckless than the growers, and many of the Dutch florists were ruined by their ventures.

This mania happily wore itself out and the industry finally assumed a healthy tone. At the present time, according to the statement of Mr. C. L. Allen, to whom I am indebted for the above facts, more than seven hundred acres of Dutch soil are devoted to Tulip culture.

Tulips have been grown from the seed by the millions. The named varieties are so great that it would be impossible to enumerate. One dealer alone boasts of more than eighteen hundred varieties.

The seed bed's important part it is to furnish fresh plants to take the place of such perennials and biennials as are winter-killed or have outlived their flowering time.

It should have light rich soil and, if possible, should have half the day in shade.

CHAPTER XII

Climbers

The originator of the "Mansion House" was compelled to obey literally the scripture injunction and "build upon a rock." A substratum of that safe "foundation" lay directly beneath the site chosen for his home and must have been hewn or exploded out previous to the placing of its corner stone. Consequently within a good foot or more of the house there is found but a thin layer of soil, where climbers may not obtain a foothold. I had formerly great success with perennial vines and creepers, among them may be counted Bignonia Radicans (Trumpet Creeper), "Baltimore Belle" (rose), Matrimony (now nearly obsolete), which I once trained with yellow Flowering Currant over the entire length and breadth of a veranda. This method of growing the Currant I claim as entirely my own. We latticed the piazza with copper wire, and its combination with the Matrimony (or "Tea Vine") was most effective and made a very dense screen. My Prairie Rose was also a marked success. So was my Hop Vine, my Scarlet Honeysuckle, and a pink climbing rose given me by a neighbor. I cannot recall its name, but well remember how it ran riot over an entire lattice, arched over the long French window in my first parlor, and how the June west wind blew its petals in from the raised window, in scented showers, about the parlor floor.

Among the annual vines I have had fine Coboea Scandens – climbing like "Jack's bean" to the very top of things. With Moonflower I have failed, although I soaked the big seed over night and sowed with great care. It is an exquisite flower, and I have seen it brought into beautiful bloom. The common native Morning Glory, which "grows and takes no care," as a matter of course does well with all.

Not so the Japanese (Ipomoea Imperialis). Lured by the seedsman's pictures of this wonder, year after year I waste good money on seed packets of that disappointing flower. My seed germinates after a fashion and sometimes I get a flower or two a trifle larger than those on the native vines, but about the same in color. Three summers ago I potted a seedling and gave it a small trellis. To my great delight it bore a few precious flowers of cerulean hue daintily striped with white. Thus encouraged I still include Japanese Morning Glories in my list of annuals, ordering them from one seedsman after another, if, peradventure, I might hit the man who furnishes the marvels which I have read about – the fluted, fringed, and rainbow-hued, the bona fide Ipomoea Imperialis.

When, fifteen years ago, after a long absence, I went for a summer outing to my native town it was the time of Honeysuckles – the evening air was loaded with their perfume, for there not to have a Honeysuckle is to be poor indeed.

Glad was I to walk in the June moonlight and again revel in the dear familiar odor. When I again left my old home I bore with me three thrifty roots of this lovely vine given me by kind friends. These were carefully planted in a sheltered corner of our Cambridge garden. From that hour I have had Honeysuckles to spare. Grown to big precious vines the three came with us to this garden, where they now cover four wooden trellises, a bit of the garden wall, and an irregular arch at the end of our piazza. Their runners have supplied the entire neighborhood with young vines, twelve of which have already come into bloom, not counting one in Malden and another in Chelsea. Last winter in common with many others I suffered a partial loss of my Honeysuckles from winter-killing. The roots were, however, still intact, and, though we missed their full bloom, their foliage is now (middle of August) as fine as ever.

It is but lately that I have learned that the Honeysuckle and the Woodbine of England are one and the same.