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CHAPTER IX
The Rose

The Rose is no mushroom Queen. Her ancestry dates away back to the Garden of Eden, and if Eve did not there gather a rosebud boutonniere for Adam, it was because that primitive young man had not a buttonhole "to his name."

The Rose of all flowers has been most praised by poets. From Isaiah's day to our own they have celebrated its charms. In English history it figured as the badge in the feuds between the houses of York and Lancaster. Among the ancients the Rose was the symbol of secrecy, and was hung up at entertainments as a token that nothing there said was to be divulged – hence the well-known phrase "under the rose" (sub rosa). The Romans at their voluptuous entertainments suspended roses in golden network from the ceiling, which, throughout the feast, fell slowly upon the reclining guest. All day, while the skillful Roman chef busied himself with his ragouts of flamingo tongues, his patés of locusts and honey, and his roasts garnished with "chilled mushrooms," slaves, in garden or forcing-house (as the season might be), wove fresh wreaths of roses for the invited guests, which beautiful youths, with hair in golden nets, waiting at the door of the triclinium, put upon their heads, warning them, as the custom was, to pass the threshold "right foot foremost." One sees, in fancy, the couches of these recumbent feasting voluptuaries, with the roses dropping, dropping, all night long, while the wine cup brimmed and "the hours went by on velvet feet."

The flower-loving Persians held annually a "Feast of Roses," which, we are told, continued the whole time of their remaining in bloom, and still another known as "The Scattering of the Roses." Groups of beautiful children then went through the streets strewing these delicious flowers.

Tom Moore tells us that "every part of the city was then as fragrant as if a caravan of musk from Khoten had passed through it."

My own rose garden is not much to brag of, having been made up of such miscellaneous rose bushes as were (without outlay) attainable. The greater part of these had come over with us from the Cambridge garden. Most plentiful of all are the Blush Roses. (Bushels of their scented petals are yearly cured by me for Potpourri.) One or two bushes of it still straggled on in the old-time border, and brought up to their possibilities by transplantation and sufficient food, soon became good to see, as also did the lone rose bush from the edge of the grass-plot, dear to the Lady's heart as the gift of a dead friend, and, summer after summer feeding the delusive hope of bloom, nursed in her optimistic soul. Now there is a second bush of its kind, both bravely blooming.

I have never learned the name of the Lone Rose. It is so very double that I have fancied it might be a descendant of the Persian "Gul sad buk," the Rose of a hundred leaves, a particular species much prized in the Vale of Cashmere. Be that as it may, it is a lovely flower. Its petals are legion, and its buds so rounded and compact as to have the appearance of big pink "alleys." More exquisite still is a single rose rescued from choking in a snarl of waxberry bushes.

It has since taken to itself a big slice of the rose garden, and, enlarged by good living to twice its ancient size, its daintily shaded flowers, for decorative use, are simply perfection. Unhappily their bloom is evanescent. They seldom outlast in water a day and a night.

Among the Cambridge roses was a little half-wild pink darling "unknown to fame." I found it at Farm Hill (Weymouth Town), where it ran riot among the vegetables in a carelessly ordered garden patch, and straggling through the picket fence, held its own among the seldom-trodden wayside weeds and grasses. Its color is bright pink, and it has the size and habit of the Scotch Rose, and is in full bloom when other roses are but buds.

Another early pink rose which we found in the Cambridge garden is the next earliest. It flowers about the 9th of June. I have no clue to its name. It must have been one of the Botanic Garden roses. Its blossom is exquisite in form, but not over fragrant. In habit it is straggling, almost a climber, and does not take kindly to pruning. Then there are the well-known Damask Roses, which must have come long, long ago from the Harvard collection. In their own habitat the Damasks are cultivated for their mercantile value, being, as we are told, the special roses from which the costly foreign Attar is obtained. I had thought that the Damask Rose had in the family three colors, but Bacon sets me right. He says: "It is large, pink, hardy, and has not been known in England (at the time of his writing) above one hundred years." It is by no means a distinguished-looking rose, but seems to have conserved within its sweet heart the perfume of a thousand summers.

A Yellow Scotch Rose takes kindly to my garden. A rose bought of a Cambridge florist for the beloved daughter, gone home to God (whose latest care it was), and now known as "Mary's Rose," bore well its second uprooting. It has come to be a tall bush, bearing abundant clusters of deep pink bloom, and all summer putting forth crisp shoots, with leaves red as a sunset cloud, and lovely as flowers for decorative uses.

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 beat
Tho' 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 stood
Half-spied, so thick the roses blushing round
About her glowed."
– Milton.
 
 
"Gather ye rosebuds while ye may;
Old Time is still a-flying,
And that same flower that smiles today
Tomorrow may be dying."
– Herrick.
 
 
"What's in a name? That which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet."
 
 
"But earthlier happy is the rose distilled
Than 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.