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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.

Straightway it took heart, and sending up new green shoots, gave us, that very year, upon "the parent stem" a tuft or two of rosy bloom.

Now, after ten years of high living, it has become an illustrious shrub; and to sit in the old garden in the May-time while the shadows and sunshine dance together on the lawn and vernal odors sweeten all the air, watching the long pink wreaths of flowering almond sway in the south wind, is to lend one's self to the divine gladness of spring, and know that simple joy in living, that is the birthright of all God's creatures in this – His beautiful and perfect – world.

The flowering almond has been often divided, and all about the garden its rosy wreaths may now be seen.

Here, too, was another old friend, the Yellow Globe flower – a shrub too large and straggling of habit to find a home in the perennial beds. It has taken a front seat among the tall shrubs and repeated itself many times. It has a long period of blooming, and is a most satisfactory inhabitant of the garden.

And now, as a possible help in the selection and arrangement of the perennial border, let me tell you what I have learned in regard to those under my care, in respect to their habit of growth, their treatment, and characteristics.

The Rose is, as we know, crowned queen of the flowers, and has her own separate place in the garden; but as the Lily kindly fraternizes with all her sister-flowers, and is easily Queen among the social perennials, I give her the first place in this catalogue of my border favorites.

The Lily – we are told – derives its name from the Celtic word li– signifying whiteness and purity. Quick to seize upon symbolic accessories to their art, the old painters put in the hand of the angelic messenger who brought to the Virgin Mary tidings of her divine motherhood, this chaste and exquisite flower. Hence the Lilium Candidum was known as the "Lily of Annunciation" and as the Madonna Lily, which last is, I think, the more poetic and beautiful of the two names.

As the genus lilium embraces about fifty distinct species one may not aspire to a large show of lilies in a moderate-sized garden.

"It does not seem necessary," says Mr. C. L. Allen (an expert in lily cultivation) "to improve, or rather, to attempt an improvement on that which is already perfect, as the lily is, wherever found in its natural habitat. It seems to us that nature has exhausted her resources in the perfection of the species, and regards as an interference all efforts of man to improve her work."

"L. Candidum," says the same authority, "is older than history, as the first notice made of plants speaks of it as a 'well-known plant.' It is the loveliest, as well as the oldest, and if we were to have but one lily Candidum would be the one." I quite agree with this decision. The Madonna has ever been the lily dearest to my heart. Although its native habitat is the Levant, the Candidum has adapted itself to our colder temperature, and is easily perfected in our temperate climate, and in the hardy garden.

Some twenty years ago this lily was extensively forced for the Easter market.

In the present decade the Bermuda Lily (L. longiflorum) is almost exclusively forced for the Easter trade, and popularly known as the "Easter Lily." Its cultivation for that April festival has now become one of the established industries of that lovely clime. The bulbs – there grown in wide flowery fields – are, early in autumn, received by our florists and directly potted for the Easter harvest.

A lady passing the winter in Bermuda brought from that island some bulbs of L. longiflorum, which finally coming into the possession of Mr. H. K. Harris of Philadelphia, he honored the flower by bestowing upon it his own name, and as L. Harrisii, brought it into prominent notice among our florists, who now force it for Easter-time. The Bermuda-grown bulbs are preferred by them to the Dutch-grown ones, as they are earlier ripened and come into bloom quicker.

For myself I prefer the Madonna, with its more open flower, to the trumpet-like Bermuda. It is, too, an old acquaintance, has a more delicate odor, and hangs its sprays more gracefully. The Bermuda needs much coaxing to live through our bleak Northern winters, but the Candidum is absolutely hardy.

The Madonna holds to her corner with the tenacity of a family cat – she is a long time settling herself in a "strange garret."

Mine had undergone the vicissitude of three moving days before settling in their present quarters. I distributed them well through my sunniest border. Their next neighbors were some elderly Bee Larkspurs. The first and second year the lovely blue Delphiniums did most of the blooming.

After that the Lilies and Larkspurs punctually celebrated together the "great and glorious Fourth" – the tall Madonnas (some years in throngs of two hundred) leading the fair procession – the Larkspurs like swarms of blue butterflies flitting about among the snow of the lilies. Then, for a time, every friend in the neighborhood had a dainty spray of summer lilies for decorative uses. Finally, it befell that the coarser perennials elbowed the lilies too closely. They grew chary of bloom, and sometimes the bulbs quite gave up the struggle for existence. Then it was that, calling in the aid of "The Man with the Hoe," I made for my "Queen Lilies" a new home, with better drainage.

The Madonna after her July flowering takes a rest. Her favorite moving day is about the last of July.

I have not an extensive knowledge of lily-culture, having but few varieties of this lovely plant in my garden.

All, excepting the Japanese (Lilium auratum) take kindly to my borders, and "increase an hundred fold." My list includes a few plants of the Japanese found here in the purlieus of the old "burglar barricade." I am indebted to Mrs. Ely for this information in regard to L. auratum: "As soon as planted in this country a microbe disease attacks the bulb and they gradually disappear under its ravages." This, no doubt, accounts for the unhealthy appearance of my few L. auratums, their scant tale of blossoms, and their sad tendency, year by year, to "grow beautifully less." America, after all, is but the step-mother of this charming flower, and Nature somewhat repudiates this much calumniated tie.

In English gardens they are said to thrive well, which may, in part, be due to better climatic conditions.

In my borders the Candidum takes the front seat. Here and there I make place for L. Tigrinum (the well-known tiger-lily). In shady places sits the Day Lily. I have a single plant of the tall Nankin-colored Lily, variously named (Lilium Excelsum, Testacum, Isabellinum). The stalk is sometimes nearly five feet high, and produces from three to twelve reflex flowers of a dainty Nankin hue – delicately shaded and fragrant. In flowering it immediately follows the Madonna. The Excelsum is not of Japanese origin. How, when, or where it was born is yet unknown.

It is said to be easy of culture, and this season I intend to remove mine to a less crowded situation, as I should long ago have done, but for dread of taking chances with the one plant.

There may be a garden where Nankin Lilies are "thick as blackberries," but it has been my fortune to see but one plant, and I have found that the flower is a stranger to all who have met it in my border.

The Nankin Lily came from our Cambridge garden, and presumably was originally grown in the Harvard Botanic Garden. I have, too, the old-fashioned, sweet-scented, early-blooming Yellow Lily. I have never known it by its Latin name, but believe it to be Hansoni – a Japanese lily, as it answers in every particular to the description of that plant.

Were the flower more lasting it would be more desirable. Its bloom, which comes in clusters, has, singly, but the short life of a day.

With delight I found this dear lily of my far-away childhood in one of these old-time borders.

It is perfectly hardy, and wonderfully prolific in bulbs. My garden has now scant room for all its Yellow Lilies, and this after friends and neighbors have kindly relieved me of some of this "embarrassment of riches."

The Lilies-of-the-valley must be kept to their own beds, where they double and treble themselves incontinently. Last, but not of least place in my heart, comes that flower thus charmingly vended by "Perdita" – in "Winter's Tale" —

"Lilies of all kinds – the Flower de Luce being one."

The familiar old-time Flower de Luce, a vigorous clump of which I found in the "Attached Garden" (growing along with the Yellow Lily and the "live-forever" plants), is with us a native product, and absolutely hardy. The smaller varieties grow wild in swamp and meadow, and are, I think, invariably, blue as the noon-day heaven. These are sometimes known as "Flags." The cultivated hardy Irises are of several colors. Mine is a lively blue, shading off to bluish white. In these days we grow in our gardens many lovely foreign Irises – some of them so beautiful that they have been called "the connecting link between the Lilies and the Orchids." The flower of the Spanish Iris is very lovely and of various colors, quite fragrant, and appears in June. It is classed by Dutch bulb growers as perfectly hardy, but in our trying climate needs to be protected by a slight winter covering.

The (so named) English Iris is a native of the Pyrenees, but, as we are told, has been common in English gardens since 1571. The flowers are of varied color – blue, white, lavender, crimson, and yellow.

L. Germanica, or German Iris, is one of the most valuable of the early-flowering sorts for the herbaceous border. This Iris is bulbous-rooted, easily propagated, and (though classed as hardy) is greatly benefited by a light winter covering of leaves. In color the flowers are blue, bright yellow, purple, of all shades, and white.

Japanese Iris (I. Kæmpferi) is with us fully acclimated, a gross feeder, and a strong grower, and an abundant bloomer. Its flowers are from six to ten inches in diameter, in various shades of color – pure white, dark purple, porcelain blue, maroon, violet, plum, and so on – all with very distinct pencilings and marblings, and exquisitely beautiful. I have no Japanese Irises in my garden, but a kind neighbor sends me superb cut-blooms from his perfect Iris border. Mr. Allen says that the well-cultivated seedling of Japan Iris "has no superior in the floral world."

Iris is named from Iris, the goddess of the rainbow – in classic mythology the swift-footed Olympian messenger.

The root of the Florentine Iris is fragrant. It has a charming violet-like odor, and is the well-known sweet Orris root (the name corrupted from Iris) of commerce.

In Shakespeare's day the Iris and the Daffodil were both included among the lilies. Some species of Iris have from early times been called Fleur de lis, or in English, Flower de luce. The Fleur de lis adopted by Louis the VIIth of France as the emblem for his shield during the Crusades was, probably, the White Iris. Older monarchies in Eastern countries, considering the Iris an emblem of power, used it – in a conventionalized form – as an emblem, on their scepters, and in this form the manufacturer still patterns it on table-linen.

In the mysterious representations of antique Egypt the Iris was placed on the brow of the Sphinx. Altogether considered it is a most desirable ornament of the garden, and a flower "of mark and likelihood."

It is recorded in the Greek legends that the physician Pæon cured Pluto of a wound with the common Peony; hence it is called after him in almost every country in Europe.

The ancient Greeks are said to have held the plant in high repute, believing it to be of divine origin, and an emanation from the moon. Pagan superstitions die hard, and in our Christian civilization still hold their own among the ignorant masses.

Mrs. Pratt tells us that in England "the lower classes turn beads of the Peony root, which form necklaces for their children, and are supposed to aid dentition, and prevent convulsions."

We learn from her that at the end of the 16th century the double red Peony – at that time introduced into Antwerp from Switzerland – was too expensive a flower for any but the rich man's garden, a single plant selling for twelve pounds! "The Mongols," she tells us, "use the seed of the wild Peony in tea, and flavor their broth with its roots."

Among ourselves no garden is complete without this lovely hardy perennial.

From my childhood the big red Peony – coming in late May-time – has been, to my mind, the very embodiment of Spring! Of all the Peonies this flower of my early love is most precious – beloved less for its dear blowsy self than for its sweet associations – memories of by-gone springs when life and joy went hand in hand, and grass was not greening on the graves of my dead.

I have in my borders but four colors of this fine flower – red, white, pink, and pink with white center – this last a single variety, and an indefatigable bloomer. The red, white, and rose pink are all the doublest of their kind, and the two latter are deliriously odorous. Of late, Peonies of many colors are to be had from the seedsman – pink, purple, and salmon-colored varieties of exquisite form and color.

The Peony is greatly disquieted by removal, and, though sturdily tenacious of life, refuses for a year or two after transplanting, to "do its level best." It is increased by division of tubers, or may be propagated by seed. The division and replanting should be done in October, and one should see that there is, at least, one eye on each tuber.

The Peony may be commended to the perennial grower, not only as a lovely flower, but as a plant to "tie to." It never gets winter-killed, blossoms punctually, and has no pernickity notions in regard to situation. It will grow in any soil, but to do its best requires to be well fed and to have the loam about it kept loose and friable, the same as for the rose.

The Foxglove (Digitalis) beautifully repays one's care. Unhappily it has a tendency to succumb to the harshness of our climate, and often gets winter-killed; surviving this ordeal, it is – with its charming spikes of white, purple, and pinkish lilac bloom – the pride of the garden. Four years ago I had, in the western end of a southward-facing border, a superb clump of this lovely biennial. Many times a day I went to look at these exquisite flowers. As I stood before them in admiration a friend often joined me, and while we stood admiring them, I thought of the Persian flower-worship – an account of which I had come across in my reading and stored in my collection of "Useful Clippings." Here it is. I cannot now recall the name of its author:

"A Persian saunters into a garden and stands and meditates on each flower before him, as in a half vision.

"When the vision is fulfilled, and the ideal flower sought for found, he spreads his mat and sits before it until the setting of the sun, then folding his mat he goes home.

"The next night he returns with friends – in ever-increasing troops, and they sit before it playing the lute, or guitar, and then all together join in prayer.

"After prayer they still sit before it sipping sherbet and chatting late in the moonlight, and so again every evening until the flower dies."

This oriental vein of plant and flower-worship seems to have been found in all Persians – even in royalty itself! It is related of Xerxes the Great that he lost a battle by delaying a whole day with his army under the shade of a gigantic plane tree, which so charmed him that he caused it to be adorned with a golden circlet.

But, to return to the Foxgloves – five or six years ago one in my border made a new departure. It "sported"!

It should perhaps be explained that to sport is to produce a flower, or a shoot, of abnormal growth. Long ago I read a most interesting paper "On Sports."

I do not remember the name of its writer, nor of the English magazine in which I found it, and after an exhaustive search in our town library have not been able to find a second paper on the subject, or to obtain further information in regard to this curious tendency from any botanist.

I remember that the English article stated that this tendency in plant or shrub to ignore Nature and take things into its own hands, was sometimes utilized by the horticulturist as an opportunity to propagate from the "Sport" a new variety of the normal plant, or shrub. Here then was my chance! From the seed of this enterprising digitalis (which bore at its apex a flower almost as flat as a daisy) I would develop a new variety – a radiate Foxglove.

I confided my ambition to a friend who, although himself a teacher of botany, had never included in his research the subject of "Sports." This botanical expert took great interest in my "Sport" – watching it with me from day to day.

Alas, vain were my hopes of giving to the world a new flower!

The radiate Foxglove declined the honor of reproduction; dropping its mottled petals, and slowly shrinking away without forming a seed pod!

A queer characteristic of the "Sport" was thus asserted in the English article before mentioned: "When a plant sports, all plants of its kind, wherever growing, also sport." Now one may admit the fact of a single plant having (as it were) flown in the face of Mother Nature, but when it comes to the whole family – "all the aunts and cousins," from Dan to Beersheba, joining in the frolic, one can but wonder and doubt the Munchausen-like statement.

Calling that summer on a Cambridge friend (a member of our Plant Club, whose flower-garden is a miracle of beauty):

"One of my Foxgloves has sported," I proudly boasted. "So has one of mine," she said, "and it is the first sport I have ever seen."

So the magazine statement was, after all, believable! Yes, away across the Atlantic, in English gardens, the Foxglove – obedient to this marvelous natural impulse of its being – was trying its hand at a radiate flower! I find it well that my sport did not germinate, since the regularly formed Foxglove suits the tall spike "to a T," and is far lovelier than any freak of a flower could be.

Since making a record of my Foxglove sport I have learned that this flower often produces at the tip of its blossom stalk an abortive radiate flower. I wonder if the Foxglove did not originally start out as a radiate, and if this freak is not a wild tendency of the plant to escape that evoluted form (which is its civilization) and lapse into its primitive barbarism?

The Foxglove comes in bloom late in June and continues flowering about four weeks.

Though classed as a biennial, it sometimes lingers on through a third summer, and continues flowering.

It is named from its finger-shaped corolla. The dried leaf of Digitalis Purpurea is a specific for disturbance of circulation, and is used in heart disease.

Its colors are pure white, white mottled with pencil-color, purple, lavender, from the palest to the deepest shades – some almost pink – all curiously mottled on the inside of the flower, which grows in tall spikes.

Sow Foxgloves in seed bed about last of April, and, late in September, transplant to their permanent place. They will bloom the following year.

Both Foxgloves and Canterbury Bells sow themselves profusely if stalk is left to perfect its seeds.