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The self-sown plants are said to be stronger than the hand-sown ones, and may be transplanted for the next year's blooming.

CANTERBURY BELLS, Campanula medium

It has been suggested that "the name of Canterbury Bells may have been given to the giant species of Campanula from its resemblance to the hand-bells which were placed on poles, and rung by pilgrims while proceeding to the shrine of Thomas à Becket."

Chaucer, in his "Canterbury Tales," has described in detail these processions to the tomb of the "blisful martir."

The Canterbury Bell is, like the Foxglove, a biennial, and may be sown in the seed bed at the same time, or the self-sown plants may be used.

It needs winter protection (not too heavy), for it is easily winter-killed.

I have, at times, had in my garden most lovely Campanulas – both double, single, and "cup and saucers." The most beautiful variety is the single.

In color mine were white, purple, and lavender, of many shades, but the pride of my heart was a rose-pink Canterbury Bell.

"Beautiful as a dream!" said the garden visitor, moved to admiration at the sight of these pink beauties.

Lovely as they are, Canterbury Bells have not the grace to die nicely.

Their dead blossoms cling, withered and unsightly, to the parent stem, and unless one has time and patience to go among the plants daily and remove the dead bells it is, for this reason, well to cultivate them in inconspicuous beds apart by themselves.

Another most desirable plant for the perennial border is Phlox (from the Greek flame). Time was when we had but the white and purple, the latter tending to that odious color magenta, which some one has happily said is "a color that has no right to be." The above varieties I found in the old border, growing amicably together. It is not without touches of remorse that I deliberately uproot anything that bears the name of flower, but, since I could remember, there has been a deadly feud between purple Phlox and myself. I keep a single root for old-time sake, which it gives me a megrim to look at. The white has been transplanted and has grown apace, until there are oceans of it in my borders.

I have, too, some of the fine varieties of "Phlox Drummondi." One of them, a deep salmon red, with a dark eye, is literally a bit of "flame." There are pinks with maroon-colored eyes, whites with pinkish eyes, pure white, lilac shaded with carmine, and light salmon with wine-colored eyes. I love best the pure white and dark salmon pink, but scarce could spare any of these from my color-scheme. The Phlox is the hardiest of herbaceous perennials, easily propagated by division, or from seed. With me, the seed-grown Phloxes have not come true in color. It is, I think, wisest to select plants in flowering time among varieties in a florist's collection, and order them at once. They are so tough that any moving day suits them, and one can scarce have too many, as they begin blooming in early August, when the border is somewhat forlorn, and last until frost.

Day-lily is the common name of a species of the Asphodelus. The ancients planted Asphodels near graves to supply the manes of their dead with nourishment. The poets, probably taking their cue from this, have celebrated the Asphodel in song as the flower of the immortals. I have thought that the bloom of the Day-lily, exquisite in form and odor, needs but the added charm of immortality to fit it for

"Angel gardens,"

but alas, its only defect is its evanescence – a single day bounds its life on this planet.

Its foliage is very ornamental, and for grouping with perennials it is a plant greatly to be desired. It is easily propagated. From one sickly root found in the old garden I have grown for my own garden Day-lilies ad infinitum, and easily spared many for those of my neighbors. It needs to be well fed, and will accept any respectable situation, and, though doing well in the sun, is most eligible for shady spots where other plants refuse to grow.

The Sweet-William – Dianthus – is hardy enough and perennial enough, profuse of bloom, and gay in color, yet nevertheless from the show places of my garden I have banished it "for good and all," because of its tendency to sprawl about the borders after flowering time, wan and withered, and making faces at the freshly-gowned Foxgloves and Canterbury Bells, then thronging the borders.

The Sweet-William has quietly taken a back seat, and, owing me no grudge, contentedly blooms on, as if to "blush unseen" were its special province.

With those tough little members of the Dianthus family, China Pinks, I have been most successful. It is a perennial, but too low-growing to make any marked show among the taller flowers. It is prettily varied in color, but lacks the odor of the Clove Pink. It is a profuse bloomer, and makes a desirable pot-plant for the window garden.

"The flower of the family" is the old Clove Pink, to which the parentage of our Carnation is by some accorded. The Elizabethan poet Drayton calls these sweet-smelling flowers "Cloves of Paradise," and Lawson – at the close of the sixteenth century – thus extols it: "Of all the flowers save the damask rose they are the most pleasant to sight and smell." "Their use," continues he, "is much in ornament, and comforting the spirits by the sense of smelling."

A syrup made of Clove Pinks (with the probable addition of some stimulant) and called by our English forbears "Sops-in-wine," because of its use in giving flavor to the festive cup, gave to this flower its rather material appellation of Sops-in-wine. Thus sings Spenser:

"Bring Carnations and Sops-in-wine

Worn of paramours" (lovers – wooers).

Bacon informs us that "Sops-in-wine, quantity for quantity, inebriate more than wine itself."

A precious Clove Pink of Botanic Garden origin, for a time bloomed in my border. It has, long since, died of old age.

Shakespeare says in Othello:

 
"Not poppy, nor mandragora,
Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world
Shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep
Which thou had'st yesterday."
 

Keats and many others have immortalized it in their verse.

Burns thus points a moral with the flower:

 
"Pleasures are like poppies spread,
You seize the flower, its bloom is shed."
 

The Papaver family has wrought much ill in its day. It is from P. somniferum, one of its members, that the opium of commerce is collected. It is the milky juice of the capsule, or of any other part of the plant which exudes from incisions in the cortical part. This juice, scraped off, is worked in the sun's heat till it is of a consistency to form cakes.

The Oriental and Iceland Poppy are both perennial. Although like the Irishman, "not born in their own native country," they take kindly to our soil. Ten years ago I carefully sowed some seed of Oriental Poppy. Two of them consented to germinate, and now, from this small beginning, I have in my garden Orientals galore. Last spring these beauties kept my borders all aflame with their splendor. I counted, in a single border, eighty-five buds and blooms, and felt well-repaid for their careful nurture. Nevertheless, Oriental Poppies raised from seed mean much patient care, and many failures, but once thoroughly established they are "real estate," and have a kindly way of sowing themselves. As the Poppy, with its long "tap root," is most impatient of removal, this habit especially commends them to the grower.

The Iceland Poppy, though far less considerable in size, is very hardy, and with its dainty bloom of lemon, orange, red, and white, makes a pretty show in a bed by itself; and the Iceland is one of the few poppies available for one's vases.

Mrs. Thaxter, in the beautiful account of her Isle of Shoals gardening, tells us that by cutting poppies in the dew of the morning, with the right hand, and plumping them straight into water with the left, she had great success with them as cut flowers.

Following her method – unsuccessfully – I am forced to believe that the long and beautiful survival of her cut poppies depended largely on the crisp cool air of her Island home. Here the summer is many degrees hotter, and has far less moisture in its air, and, though morning after morning, tempted by their exquisite shades of color, I gather Shirley Poppies for the house, and like the Persian, fall down and worship them; in their slender vases they scarce outlive the day.

A friend making a pilgrimage to Stratford-on-Avon brought me some seed supposedly from Anne Hathaway's garden.

I sowed Madame Shakespeare's poppies with reverent care, but these English-born seeds patriotically refused to quicken in alien soil. No matter! they may have been but half-wild wind-sown things, and with my Shirleys, Icelands, and glorious Orientals, I can spare them.

With the ancient Greeks, the poppy with its crowded capsules was an emblem of fertility. Cybele, the mother of the gods, wears a crown of poppies.

In Roman gardens Somnus, the god of slumber, was anciently figured as reclining on a mass of snowy poppies, with a posy of these emblems of oblivion in his motionless hand.

Mexican Indians are pictured as returning home after a day of toil, dancing and singing to the music of a guitar, and crowned with wreaths of this "forgetful flower."

In the shops of Constantinople poppy juice mixed with rich fruit syrups is sold as a sweetmeat, or in the form of small lozenges on which are stamped "Mash Allah" (the work of God). Tartar couriers, traveling immense distances, and with marvelous speed and endurance, often, it is said, take no other nourishment than the famous "Mash Allah" of the Turks, in which the juice of hemp is mingled with that of the poppy.

The Columbine (Aquilegia) is a desirable plant for the border. Mine came from choice seed sent the Plant Club from Mr. Childs, a Philadelphia florist. They soon germinated, but were two years coming to bloom.

There are now many beautiful colors to be had. I have but the yellow and white, the purple and white, and pure yellows.

Once well-established, Columbines come to stay, and are most lovely! the garden plants flowering from the middle of May until late in June, and having the same graceful carriage of the wild variety, with flowers double their size, and with elegant long "spurs."

Its name is from the Latin Columbinas (dove-like) so called from the beak-like spurs of its flowers.

In my mention of early-blooming perennials I had forgotten the Crown Imperial. It is a resident of most old gardens, and has the distinction of remote antiquity. Mention is made of it in an Herbal of 1596 for its "stately beautifulness," and the herbalist accords it a "first place in the Garden of Delight."

I have but a single plant of this early flower, which punctually leads off in the spring procession along with its neighbor, the red peony.

The Eupatorium is not, I think, extensively cultivated in the garden. It is one of the hardiest of the later perennials. Mine was raised from seed. Having but one clump of it, I am always meaning to sow and to raise more plants of this dainty white flower, which comes with the Phloxes at the most flowerless time of the borders, but (to borrow an excuse from my slack old colored woman-of-all-work) "I haint jus' fetch roun' to it."

I find the Eupatorium's name in my seed catalogue. It is not, there, classed with the hardy perennials. It grows high enough to make a fair show among the border plants.

As will be seen, I have not in my borders a large assortment of perennials. My purse forbids a costly collection, and I think it well to undertake no more plants than can be well cared for in my hands, when much extra help cannot be afforded.

To my list let me add a few low-growing beauties.

The Italian peasant twines wreaths of the Periwinkle around the head of the departed infant or young maiden, and calls it Fler di morte (Death's Flower). Because of the laurel-like tint and texture of its glossy leaves the Greek has termed it Daphnoides.

In olden times it was highly valued for its medicinal virtues. Lord Bacon tells us that, in his day, bands of green Periwinkle were bound about the limbs to prevent cramps. By Americans it is often miscalled Myrtle. It carpets finely the bare spaces in borders, especially the shady ones, where other perennials will not thrive.

The Periwinkle is not an "up-to-date" plant. The seedsman of today gives it no place in his catalogue. I have several thrifty clumps of this pretty blue-eyed darling, and delight greatly in its bloom and its glossy trailing foliage.

Periwinkle is one of the oldest flowers of the English garden. Chaucer in describing a garden of the olden time speaks of it as "Fresh Periwinkle, rich of hue," and places it on the same plane with the rose and violet.

The Forget-me-not is another low-growing perennial which may prettily carpet the bare spots between the taller occupants of the border.

We have all associated the name of this charming little flower with the story of the chivalrous knight who wandered beside a stream with the lady of his love. In the attempt to procure for her some of its much-desired flowers growing on the opposite shore he was borne away by the current while returning to her side with the gathered blossoms, and, making a last effort, threw them on the margin of the engulfing flood, and crying "Forget-me-not," sank beneath the waters.

Miss Strickland gives a less romantic but more probable narrative of the origin of the name. The exiled Henry of Lancaster, whose fortunes are related by Shakespeare in "King John," according to this writer, first gave to the Forget-me-not its emblematic meaning by writing it on his collar with the initial letter of his mot, or watchword, and on his restoration from banishment continued this heraldic use of the flower, adopted in his homesickness, even when raised to the fatal eminence of a king.

Some of the showiest of the annuals may be, in June, transplanted from the seed beds to brighten the borders through August and September, as the Yellow Marigolds, the Zinnias, the Nicotianas, the Cosmos, and the seedling Single Dahlias, which will bloom the first year, and if that dictum of Linnæus ("a double flower is a vegetable monster") may be accepted, are the beauties of the family. They are certainly more lovely for one's vases than the double Dahlias, and the white ones are, as a table decoration, scarce less charming than the white Cosmos.

The Dahlia is named after Andrew Dahl, a Swedish botanist, and is a native of Mexico and Central America.

It shows a natural disposition to sport from its original form (single).

Florists directed their attention to raising new forms of this flower. First attempts finally resulted in semi-double varieties, and early in the 18th century M. Doukelan, botanic gardener at Louvain, produced from seed three perfectly double plants. These are said to be the very first double Dahlia plants ever produced. The Dahlia is decidedly progressive. Its up-to-date achievement is the elegant Cactus variety. I sowed, this year, some seeds of double Dahlia. It is now October and a few of them (some very beautiful and quite Cactus-like) are in bloom.

Once upon a time there were in this garden thrifty borders of Box. These the dear Lady tried hard to keep intact.

Every spring the failing rows were reset with small plants from the ancient stock, and were, first and last, the plague and despair of "the man's" busy life. At first I made the same futile attempt to restore the Box bordering. Now I have given up this idea of repairing the withered sections, but some six or eight large plants still in their beautiful perfection delight my heart. Some there are who object to the odor of Box, to others it is very pleasant and grateful. I am very fond of it, partly, I suppose, from its association with some much-admired gardens that I knew in childhood.

Common Box has but two varieties, one of which is the Dwarf Box, used as an edging for flower-beds – the other (Tree Box) is described as of surprising thickness, and as tall as the beech tree. This tree is of great antiquity. It is mentioned in the Bible, with the fir tree and the pine, as affording wood for the temple of King Solomon. The wood of the Box tree is very valuable and durable. Virgil has thus sung its virtues:

 
"Smooth-grained and proper for the turner's trade,
Which curious hands may carve, and steel invade."
 

Mrs. Pratt tells us that "in the North of England the old custom of each mourner carrying a sprig of Box at a funeral and throwing it in the grave still lingers."

Wordsworth thus baldly refers to this practice, in his verse —

 
"Fresh sprigs of boxwood, not six months before,
Filled the funeral basin at Timothy's door."
 

In Turkey, the widow, who goes weekly to pray at the tomb of her husband, plants a sprig of Box at the head of the grave.

CHAPTER VIII
Hollyhocks and Violets

Hard by the Lover's walk, in an old-time bed, a blue Flower-de-luce, some roots of white and purple Phlox, a bunch or two of "Leaf-for-ever," and another of scented yellow Lilies, had long stoutly held their own. Here, every spring-time, the Lady caused to be planted her Dahlia bulbs – by no means the choicest of their kind, but taking amicably to the situation, and every autumn generously contributing their scarlet, lavender, and purple bloom to the color scheme of the big bowpots that adorned the side table in the "Mansion House" hall.

Four years ago, late in July, to deaden the pain of a new bereavement, I prepared this bed for the reception of a few dozen Hollyhock plants. It was the place suggested for this use by him who had left me, and with many tender thoughts of the beloved one I undertook the carrying out of his wishes. Removing to other quarters the old inhabitants of the bed "The Man with the Hoe" dug deep and spared not for manure. This done, on a cloudy day we set the young plants. It seemed a risky undertaking to transplant at midsummer, but, covered for a time from the sun and faithfully watered, they all adjusted themselves to their new home, and have, ever since, thriven to my heart's content. The bed is long and of moderate width. The plants were set in two rows, about one foot apart, and in the space between the outer rows we put, here and there, smaller plants. In late autumn they all had a covering of litter and boughs, and were made snug for their winter nap. As the situation is high and exposed to "all the airts the wind may blow," it was not without misgivings that I waited for the spring uncovering and the after development. In due time the hardy darlings showed their pretty green shoots, and before midsummer they stood up in budded rows, ready to be staked, and about the thirteenth of July the bed burst into splendid bloom. My color scheme called for but two colors, pink and white, and wonderful it was to see the shading of the roseate flowers, varying, as it did, from wine color to such faint pink as lives between the dainty lips of a sea shell.

On some stalks (more than eight feet high) the flowers came double as a cabbage rose; on others they were half double, and the out-and-out single ones had the sheen of satin and the transparency of gauze, and all were more or less creamy or lemon-hued at the center.

I think it must be from the old association of Hollyhocks with village Fourth of July celebrations that the flower has to my mind a distinctly festal appearance. Standing at the end of my bed and looking down the rows of pink and white is to me like watching a holiday procession. Not a commonplace ordinary one, keeping step to the music of a brass band, with doughty policemen hustling the hoodlums in its rear, but one of chaste and joyous maidens gowned gayly in pink and white, such as may of old have been led by "Jephthah's daughter," what time she "went forth with timbrel and dances" to meet her rash, exultant father fresh from his victory over Israel's uncircumcised foes. Yes, the Hollyhock, though lacking the delicacy of the Lily and the fragrance of the Rose, is a flower "most fair to see." The yellows and purples are both beautiful, but for massing give me the reds, pinks, and whites.

Sow in the seed bed each spring and thus have new plants to supply places made vacant in the show bed, and to bestow on neighbors who are starting rows of this fine hardy perennial.

Hollyhock – O E holihoc – "holy mallow" – "blessed mallow" – is probably so named because brought from the Holy Land.

No garden is complete without its Violet bed. Ours was started eight years ago. We selected for it a spot "half in shade and half in shine," with a southern frontage, sheltered from the north by tall shrubs.

Two packets of choice Russian Violet seed were then sown in friable soil, well sifted, and made rich with a bottom layer of old cow manure. The bed had been laid out, prepared, and sown by the dear hands of one whose gardening is now "all done."

After all his care the seed never germinated, and early in the following autumn the bed was set with well-grown double Russian Violet plants bought of the florist. For a year or two these plants throve finely, blossomed abundantly, and increased fourfold. The third year the flowers degenerated in size and beauty, and though still, at May-time, the bloom punctually puts in an appearance, the Russians are, on the whole, far less satisfactory than the single English Violets brought from the Cambridge garden and growing in the end of the same bed. These flower most generously and come into bloom about ten days earlier than the Russians.

The Violet has an obliging way of sowing its own seed, projecting them from its capsule with dynamic force. My English darlings have a lavish habit of scattering themselves about the lawn, in that fashion, and filling in the bare places in the bed. The Russians choose rather to be propagated from runners. Friends I have who grow year after year big velvety Russian Violets. Would that I had the skill to do likewise, but to me heaven denies the power of bringing these beauties to perfection. Yet (such as they are) I hold my Violets dear, and without them spring would scarce be spring.

In all the old floral usages of the English the Violet holds a place next to the Rose. It was used at weddings, and had its place in other and sadder religious ceremonials.

With the Troubadours it was an emblem of constancy. Their prize of a golden Violet to the best versifier of the flower's graces and beauties proves in how much esteem they held this April blossom.

The Pansy, one of the Violas, was much celebrated by the elder English poets, who gave it the charming name of "Heartsease."

Pansies may be easily grown from seed. As they are less troubled by cold than most flowers – being half hardy – the seedlings may be treated as biennials. Transplant them from seed bed in September, and in November cover well with old manure, then add piled leaves and evergreen boughs, and the minute spring opens uncover.

The young plants should not be allowed to flower in the autumn. Pick off the buds as they appear and they will be likely to give you bloom all summer long. I confess to an impatience that prompts to the buying of many baskets of Pansies in May, and thus securing flowers on the spot, besides selecting my favorite colors. These plants will not achieve much after their first season, but will grow "beautifully less" in size, and finally become like Lady's Delights, those pretty plebeian Violas that accept any soil, or situation, and show their cheery little faces among the cabbages, and even in the skimpy soil of the gravel walks.

"There's Pansy, that's for thought," says Perdita, in "Winter's Tale."

Pansy – French pensee, fancy or thought, from penser, to think. Heartsease – ease of heart – tranquillity of mind – is the poet's name of the flower. Of the common names one may choose between "Johnny Jump-up" and the more elegant Lady's Delight.

The Violet, though but a tiny unassuming flower, is (both in verse and prose) often classed with the regal Rose. Both are delightful in perfume, and in that respect equally popular.

Having small knowledge of rose-growing I do not presume to hold forth on "Rose Culture." Books on that subject are many and excellent, and I should but say with "Denis," the "Minister's double," when his turn came to make a speech at the committee meeting: "So much has been said, and so well said, that I will not further pursue the subject." Nevertheless, my next chapter shall be devoted to this "Queen-flower."