CHAPTER X

"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 convictionsof "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 beenwell 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."

TheSalvias, 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 amoistsandy 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 wouldcause 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 propagatefrom 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.

Awell-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, thelatterthe moment frost is out of the ground, theformerabout 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, whichis 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 ofBluet. 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.

Winter Corner at The Lilacs

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," thesingle 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,

"Come before the swallow daresAnd take the winds of March with beauty,"

is among the earliest of our spring flowers and laughs our raw east winds to scorn.

"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 theNarcissus 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.

Theoriginator 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, thebona 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, fortherenot to have a Honeysuckle is to be poor indeed.

Glad was I to walk in the June moonlight and againrevel 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.

The English Honeysuckle blooms monthly; the Japanese Honeysuckle isnota monthly bloomer. It blossoms with the June roses, and sometimes bears a spray or two of bloom in late autumn. It differs in other ways from the English—has not its pink shading nor its dainty scent. Milton, in Lycidas, calls it "the well-attired Woodbine"—perhaps this is because of its continuous flowering. The oriental variety has in this day superseded the English. More rapid in growthand easier of culture it falls in with the hurrying sentiment of the time. It has been my good fortune to possess in my day three English Honeysuckles—now, mine areallJapanese. The poets, from Chaucer down to Wordsworth, have sung the praises of the Woodbine.

The elder poet drew his image of constant affection from the clinging nature of the Woodbine (or "bind") and its enduring hold on the wedded tree. Contrary to the habit of most other vines the Honeysuckle follows, in its windings, the sun.

The Weigelia, a shrub belonging to the Honeysuckle family, was introduced from China, and is named after Weigel, a German naturalist.

Here end my hints in regard to the selection and culture of such everyday herbaceous plants, shrubs, annuals, and vines as are attainable to the garden-lover of moderate means. Many rarer specimens are (as a matter of course) within reach of one with a longer purse, who holds (with me) that Victor Hugo "hit the nail on the head" when he paradoxically asserted that "the beautiful is as useful as the useful, perhaps more so."

To me one of the beautiful uses of flowers is to cut them for interior decoration.

Our grandmothers had no vocation for out-of-door life. A garden was to them a place to "grow things" in, to work and walk in, but to sit in? never! All the same the big "bowpots" were duly filled, and although less artistically arranged than the vases of today, werea part of the housewife's plan of living, and bore witness to the divine truth that "man cannot live by bread alone."

Lafcadio Hearn tells us that "to the Japanese the arranging of a bough of blossoms is a serious act of life. That the placing of flowers is indeed an exact science, to the study of which a man may devote seven years, even fourteen years, before he will be acknowledged a master."

As a rule avoid painted china vases in arranging cut flowers. Let the vase be artistic in shape and well adapted to the flowers it holds, but never so gay in color as to rival them. Single flowers arrange best, and, as a general rule, put each variety in a glass by itself. Roses, Nasturtiums, and Sweet Peas seem especially well-suited to table decoration. They are all "good enough to eat."

Thepoorest of us have our "castles in Spain." Why not have ourgardens? Such a garden I have "in my mind's eye," but before I make bold to describe this airy creation (which, for lack of leisure and "hard cash," is doomed never to materialize) let me explain that my garden in Spain is not purely ornamental; that its beds and walks, although tastefully laid out, are strictly devoted to "the useful," to culinary and medicinal ends. In earlier times ourMateria Medica(including though it did the unsavory pills and potions now become somewhat out of date) pinned its faith largely to Nature's ready-to-hand specifics. "Simples," as these herbs were then called (probably in contradistinction to the complex preparations of the doctor), were even in our own generation zealously gathered by our grandmothers; and I well remember the time when to be without dried herbs—Boneset, Hoarhound, Wormwood, Motherwort, Catnip, and Gentian—was to be shiftless indeed.

In laying out this imaginary garden plot I have covered a good half acre of rich soil, which I have, in fancy, divided into pretty beds of various size and shape, with neat intersecting gravel walks. There I have sown or planted such herbs as once hung in generous bunches, drying leisurely, in all respectable garrets, when such minor ailments as "flesh is heir to" were curedon the spot and only on alarming occasions the doctor, with his pill boxes, his blisters, and lancet, called in.

Various are the uses and virtues of these medicinal herbs. "Gentian," says an old herbalist, "will worke admirable cures for the stomache and lungs. It is also a special counter-poison against any poison, as against the violence of a mad dog's tooth."

Modern physicians find one species of Gentian soporific and use it to procure sleep for the weary sufferer. G. Latea is the Gentian of commerce, and is used as a tonic. The old herbalists commend the Common Centaury as a cure for jaundice and ague, and tell us that an infusion of the plant removes freckles. Of Jacob's Ladder (a plant of the genus Smilax) Pliny tells us that the name by which it is known to us is derived from Polimis (war), because two kings having each claimed the merit of discovering the great uses of the herb had recourse to arms to settle the disputed question.

The old "Simplers" (herbalists) commend Penny Royal tea as a remedy for coughs and colds—"goode and wholesome for the lungs"—and add that "a garlande of the plant worn about the heade will cure giddeness."

Foxglove (Digitalis) was praised by old herbalists for its various medicinal uses, "divers having been cured thereby of falling sickness." Later, skillful practitioners have discovered its power over the action of theheart, and Digitalis has come to be a highly-valued medicine.

Common Vervain rivals the Mistletoe in its occult usages. "Many old wives' fables tending to witchcraft and sorcerie," says Gerarde, "are written of Vervayne."

"The Druids," according to Pliny, often used Vervain in "casting lots, telling fortunes, and foreshadowing future national events." Its gathering was attended with peculiar ceremonies. "It was to be sought for at the rising of the great Dog-star, and when plucken an offering of honeycomb was to be made to the Earth as a recompense for depriving her of so goodly an herb." The ancients believed that "if the hall or dining chamber be sprinkled with the water wherein Vervain lay steeped all that sate at the table should be very pleasant, and make merry more jocundly."

The Romans considered it a sacred plant, placing it in the hands of ambassadors who were about to enter on important embassies; and the floors of their houses were rubbed with Vervain to drive away evil spirits. In England, at a later time, the plant was called "Holy herb," and had its superstitious usages intimating a belief in its magical properties. Of late years it is there tied round the neck as a charm to cure ague.

Vervain is still believed to possess great medicinal virtues, and is described as a remedy for thirty different maladies. It had of old the expressive name of "Simpler's Joy."

The Verbena tribe of this plant is cultivated in our gardens for its showy clusters of pink, purple, white, and dazzling scarlet blossoms, and the Lemon variety for its delicately fragrant leaves.

According to the old "Simplers" "the roote of the Caraway may be eaten like the parsnip, and helpeth digestion and strengtheneth the stomaches of ancient (aged) people exceedingly, and they need not make a whole meal of them neither."

In some countries Angelica is (we are told) called by a name signifying the "Holy Ghost." In ancient times its leaf stalks were blanched like those of celery and eaten as a salad, or they were dried and preserved as a sweet-meat, "Candied Angelica." The Laplander believes that the use of Angelica prolongs life, and chews it as he would do tobacco.

The Highlanders have the same opinion of the virtues of Lovage. The simplers have advised "gentlewomen" "to nourse it up in their kitchen gardens to helpe their own family and their poore neighbors that are faire remote from phisitions and Chirurgeons." They also affirm that "if a man carry about him Angelica root the witches doe have no power over him."

The nourishment in the roots of wild herbs has often kept the Indian tribes from starvation in times of scarcity of game, when they had to depend on these and on crows, eagles, and devil fish to sustain life while awaiting the "coming of the salmon," that in fishing time leaped in prodigious numbers in their rivers.

I remember reading of an especially providential instance where in a region desolated by grasshoppers the people were, for the time, sustained on therootsof herbs which these greedy cormorants had, necessarily, left intact.

For an interesting and exhaustive treatment of this branch of botanical information the reader is referred to Anna Pratt's "British Flowering Plants," a work from which much of my own knowledge has been obtained.

"If," says an old writer, "I shoulde set down all the sortes of herbes that are usually gathered for sallets I should not only speake of garden herbes, but of many herbes which grow wilde in the fieldes, or else be but weedes in a garden."

George Herbert, in his "Priest to the Temple," while enumerating the duties of the parson and his family, thus writes: "For salves his wife seeks not the city, but prefers her gardens and fields before all outlandish gums; and surely hyssop, valerian, adder's tongue, melilot, and St. John's-wort, made into a salve, and elder, comfrey, and smallage made into poultice, have done great and rare cures." And he piously adds: "In curing of any, the Parson and his family, use to premise with prayer; for this is to cure like a parson, and this raiseth the action from the Shop to the Church."

Catmint or Catnip is the "New Wine" of the Grimalkin family. It is said that it is not intoxicatingto them until its odor is perceptible to their smell by breaking or bruising the plant.

Catnip is fabled to make the most gentle human beings fierce and wrathful, and it is related of a certain pusillanimous hangman that he only gained courage to perform the duties of his wretched vocation by chewing catnip root.

One who experimented with Catnip as an incitement to ferocity assures us that "for 24 hours after a dose of this root she retained a perfect equanimity of temper and feeling."

But enough space has already been given to the healing herbs that plant themselves in my Garden in Spain, and now let me tell you of the dear little imaginary beds devoted to my sweet-scented "pot-herbs." In these I please myself with tending Coriander, Mint, Anise, and Cumin, Dill, Lovage, Thyme, Lavender, Angelica, Sweet Sicily, Rosemary, Comfrey, Fennel, Sweet Basil, Penny Royal, and Balm.

Here, too, may be found less poetical herbs of solid worth in the cuisine—as Sage, Parsley, Summer Savory, Sweet Marjoram, and so on. Many fragrant pot-herbs are dear to my heart simply from long association, others are widely distinguished by historical eminence.

Coriander has the especial claim of "long descent." Its pedigree dates back to the time of the Egyptian Pharaohs, and it is possibly coeval with the Sphinx and the pyramids. It would seem to have been in commonuse among the Hebrews at the time of their exodus from Egypt, as Moses, in the Book of Numbers, tells us that Manna was in appearance like Coriander seed. It is said to have been in use by the ancients both as a condiment and a medicine. In our day it forms an ingredient in Curry powder, and is used in confectionery.

Mint, Rue, and Cumin have each a delightful flavor of antiquity. The tithe or tax upon these ancient herbs paid so scrupulously by the Pharisees bears testimony to their commercial value full nineteen centuries ago. To think of these miserable hypocrites having mint-sauce to their "spring lamb" and, possibly, "peppermint creams" to their dessert! It is, however, good to know that the dear little babies of the time were privileged with anise seed tea in the stress of colic. How bitter-flavored cumin served them I cannot say, but it is to be hoped that these "Scribes and Pharisees" (whom even their imitators frankly anathematize) what time they had "spring feelin's" were not let off with homemade decoctions of innocent "Simples," but were mercilessly dosed, by the "Holy Land" doctors, with nasty potions of Senna and Salts.

Lavender, Rosemary, Basil, and Sweet Marjoram have all been celebrated in verse. Keats has sent cold shivers down our backs with his gruesome story of "Isabella" and her flower-pot of Sweet Basil, with its ghastly hiding:

"And she forgot the stars, the moon, and sun,And she forgot the blue above the trees,And she forgot the dells where waters run,And she forgot the chilly autumn breeze;She had no knowledge when the day was done,And the new moon she saw not: but in peaceHung over her sweet Basil evermore,And moisten'd it with tears unto the core."

Sweet Marjoram in England produces its fragrant blossom at such elevations as to have gained the pretty name "Joy of the Mountains." Shakespeare has added interest to it by making it the password in the tragedy of "King Lear."

In fancy one can see the faithful Edgar with his mutilated father, the duke, climbing to the "dread summit of that chalky bourn," and hear Edgar saying to his father:

"Hark! do you hear the sea?"

"The swete marjoroms," says an old writer, "are not only much used to please the outward senses in nosegaies, and in the windows of houses, as also in swete powders, swete bags, and swete washing waters, but are also of much use in physick, to comfort the inward members."

Caraway calls up the cookies dear to childhood, and a spray of green Fennel brings back, as if by touch of the enchanter's wand—"Minister Garner" in the old meetin'-house under the big "sounding board" (relentless as fate) pursuing his theme to the bitter end, while seated, in the pen-like box pew, beside our devout grandmother, we tone ourselves down to the solemn occasion,with no higher aspiration than the wish to be butterflies sailing gayly in the outside sunshine. Virtue has, at last, its reward. At about the minister's soporific "fifthly" our grandmother catches herself nodding. Opening her roomy black silk workbag she gives herself a saving nibble of fennel and passes a delicious spray of this spicy herb to each of her three grandchildren.

Dear old grandma! a full half century ago her soul went home to God, yet still I recall my childish picture of her angel sweeping with wide wings the blue eternal spaces, with never-withering sprays of fennel in her hand.

One lingers lovingly over these pretty "Herbs O' Grace," of which the half has not here been told. But, already it is time to writefinisat the end of this vagary—"My Garden in Spain."

Ifind it good to think of plants as mysterious fellow-existences, about which the half is not yet known—to speculate on their psychological properties—on what has been called "The cerebral processes of plants."

Darwin has thus expressed himself on this interesting question:

"It has," he says, "always pleased me to exalt plants in the scale of organized beings, and I therefore felt especial pleasure in showing how many and what admirably well-adapted movements the tip of a root possesses.... It was impossible in accordance with the principle of evolution," he goes on to say, "to account for climbing plants having been developed in so many widely different groups, unless all plants possess some slight power of movement of an analogous kind. This I proved to be the case."

In his "Power of Movement in Plants" he still farther expresses this conviction: "The tips of all young growing parts of the higher plants continually revolve, bowing successively towards every point of the compass." And he declares that "it is hardly an exaggeration to say that the tip of the radicle endowed with such diverse kinds of sensitiveness and having the power to direct the movements of the adjoining parts, acts like the brain of one of the lower animals, thebrain being seated within the anterior end of the body, receiving impressions from the sense-organs and directing the several movements."

Great truths gain ground by inches. This assumption of the great scientist is not yet generally admitted, although, as I think, well established by experimental proof. An interesting paper in "Forest and Garden," prepared by T. D. Ingersoll of Erie, Pennsylvania, and entitled "Signs of Intelligence in a Madeira Vine."

I here copy verbatim:

"Two or three years ago I began, without any great seriousness, an experiment on some Madeira Vines, which presently began to prove more interesting than was anticipated. Before this my attention had been attracted to peculiar movements made by this plant in the course of its spiral ascent of a stick. If allowed to grow a few inches above the support the extremity of the plant will sway backward and forward a few hours and then will enter upon a regular revolving movement, always from right to left, or contrary to the direction in which the hands of a watch move. One revolution consumes about three hours. One of my plants began to grow on April first, and at the end of fourteen days was twelve inches tall and showing signs of uneasiness—now bending away from a vertical position and again standing nearly upright. On the 16th it was eighteen inches high, and, being too top-heavy to stand erect, it began to fall away from the pot, which stood upon a table, towards the floor. This was done gradually andapparently with conscious care. It seemed to feel at times that it was letting itself down too fast, when it would stop with a jerk, like a nodding child half asleep. When near the floor it began describing ellipses, about three inches in diameter, with its upturned extremity. On the 19th it was twenty-six inches in length, and would describe a crescent-shaped loop, seventeen inches in length by six inches in breadth, in about two hours. On the 23d it was three feet four inches long, revolving with less regularity, and at times drooped as if weary or discouraged in trying to find something upon which it might entwine itself. Thus far no opportunity had been given the plant to climb, since it was desirable to see what it would do to meet the absence of some support. On the 26th a new route of traverse was undertaken at 6a.m., and at nine o'clock the extremity, which was near the floor at the left side of the pot, had described a circle six inches in diameter. It then slowly swept around to the right side and made another irregular circle, and then returned to the left side of the pot; these movements occupied just twelve hours. The track of the tip of the vine was carefully traced with a pencil upon a sheet of paper laid beneath it, and the entire line of traverse measured no less than six feet nine inches. During the evening the plant became quiet, and probably remained so all night. At 10a.m.the next day, however, it began pointing its tip in various directions, and at noon assumed the form of a corkscrew, about four inches long, which postureit retained until night and then straightened out. On May first the vine was lifted and tied to a vertical support—a large thread—where it remained entirely quiescent for two days. Then it began growing again as if it had recovered from what had been for six days a condition near the point of death.

"Another vine was observed carefully during several days of cloudy weather. It uncoiled itself from the stick and reached away toward the light at an angle with the horizon of forty-five degrees. It was carefully recoiled about its stick, but after it had grown some three inches more it unwound itself and stood away toward the window as before. Time after time during the continuance of the cloudy weather it was brought back to its support but invariably left it. Then followed a fortnight of bright sunny weather, during which the vine showed no disposition to escape from its stick or stop its twining growth. Attempts were made to induce another plant to twine in the direction opposite to its normal one, but no ingenuity could deceive the plant as to its proper course. All the experiments seemed to show how much like an animal was the plant in its sensitiveness, not only to changes of light and temperature, but to harsh treatment. Whenever restrained or forced, no matter how tenderly, out of its natural method of growth, all progress was retarded and the health of the vine disturbed in a marked degree. Plants seem to be creatures of feeling and the similarity of movement and apparent purpose between them and the lower orders of animals are used to strengthen their theory by those who hold to the doctrine of the identity of life in the two kingdoms."

Dr. Dwight, in his paper in "Scribner's" entitled "Right-handedness" still further develops the theory of brain power in plants. "The spiral growth," says this writer, "of a graceful climbing plant, at first sight, suggests nothing like right or left-handedness, but the analogy when once seen is very striking. As the young plant begins its upward course it is clear that to make the coils which it is its nature to describe, it must either turn to the right or left. It might be supposed that its deviation to either side is the result of an accident, but this is impossible, for, though the individual plants of some kinds do twine indiscriminately to either side, some only curl to the right and others to the left. More remarkable still, some species twist in the opposite direction to that of the larger families to which they belong, and finally, sometimes a particular plant grows the wrong way. This is analogous to being left-handed."

From Mrs. Pratt's "Flowering Plants of England" I take this account of the curious movements of the seed-vessel of the "Musk Stork's Bill."

It is a relation of Mr. Mallet of Dublin of his personal observation of the capsule movements of this remarkable flower. "Each seed," says the writer, "ofwhich there are five to each flower, is enclosed in a carpel, attached by its upper extremity to a tail or awn, which possesses the most wonderful hygrometric sensibility, as, indeed, does every other part of the plant. These five awns lie in grooves in the receptacle of the flowers, and this receptacle is central to and is the axis of all parts of the flower and the fruit.

"When the whole system has arrived at a certain point of aridity the awns, which are provided with an exquisite power of torsion, hoist themselves out from their grooves and at the same moment a number of downy filaments, hidden in the back or inward face of the awns, bristle forth; they all now become detached and fall to the ground. But here they still continue to twist, and from the position in which they always lie keep tumbling over and over, and thus receding from the parent plant until at length they become perfect balloons, ready to be wafted away by every zephyr."

The theory that "plants can see," or, at any rate, manage to find food and support by some special sense, which the unscientific mind cannot better name than to call it sight, has been corroborated in the "Rural Press" by Mrs. King, who thus describes her husband's observation of this interesting habit on the part of a creeping plant in India:

"He was sitting on the veranda, with one foot up against a large pillar near to which grows a kind of convolvulus. Its tendrils were leaning over into the veranda, and, to Robert's surprise, he presently noticed that they were visibly turning toward his leg. Heremained in the same position and in less than an hour the tendrils had laid themselves over his leg.

"This was in the early morning, and when at breakfast he told me of this discovery we determined to make further experiments. When we went out into the veranda the tendrils had turned their heads back to the railing in disgust. We got a pole and leaned it up against the pillar quite twelve inches from the nearest sprays of convolvulus.

"In ten minutes they had begun to curve themselves in that direction and acted exactly as you might fancy a very slow snake would do if he wished to reach anything. The upper tendrils bent down, and the side ones curved themselves until they touched the pole, and in a few hours were twisted quite round it.

"It was on the side away from the light, and, excepting the faculty of sight, we can think of no other means by which the tendrils could be aware that the pole had been placed there. They had to turn away from the light to reach it, and they set themselves in motion visibly within a few minutes of the pole's being there."

My own experience with climbing plants has long since convinced me that they have "a will of their own," and that if their will differs from my own no amount of coaxing will induce them to take the path which is laid out for them.

Well, if plants had but tongues they could, no doubt, tell us things well worth hearing in regard to their special mode of existence.

Itseems but yesterday that the punctual year brought back her Daffodils—that Hyacinth and Tulip pushed up green shoots for the spring sunshine—and now the Syringa bushes are white with bloom.

In one short week midsummer will have come, that beautiful holiday of the summer solstice, whose festal observance is, in England, of great antiquity.

The old practice of lighting bonfires in London and in other towns (and even in villages) is probably a remnant of the pagan rites once observed on that day.

Later, the Christian monks dedicated this festival to one of their saints, and, accordingly, the people on that day made their houses gay with St. John's-wort and other flowers and at evening kept the "vigil of St. John the Baptist," lighting bonfires in honor of this saint. Every man's door was then hung with birch boughs and lamps of glass, whose oil burnt on through the night. An old parish entry—dating so far back as the reign of Edward IVth—thus stands: "For birch at Midsummer VIII d"; and again, "Various payments for birch bowes at Midsummer."

Old English poets commemorate in verse the hanging at this season of birch branches over the sign boards of shop doors.

Perhaps in our increasing demand for holidays we may yet adopt this charming festival of our English forbears, as we have that of their Yule-tide. It wouldfall at the same season as did that pretty Persian festival, "The Feast of Roses."

Today, in after-dinner "idlesse," with the unread morning paper in my hand, I sit beneath the blossomed Tulip trees, taking in so much of the beauty and perfection of the hour as my limited being will hold. Shadow and sunshine interchange upon the lush green lawn, where today the Syringa sprinkles its first light snow. The breath of blown Peonies scents the summer air along with the languorous odor of the mock-orange flowers. Yonder, in the old pear tree hard by the Lover's bowery walk, a happy thrush sings out his little heart while his silent mate broods patiently the family nest. A distant robin pipes cheerily among the apple boughs, and somewhere among the treetops a gurgling oriole sings—sings as if in this whole wide world of ours there were neither pain nor death, but only life, and joy, and never-ending summer.

Last night a Damask Rose opened in the garden—

"God's in his Heaven; all's right with the world!"

For myself—attuned to the blessed influences of the hour—I am at peace with all mankind. My enemies, one and all, are forgiven on the spot, and I meekly consider the advisability of "turning the other cheek" for a second "smite." For what saith the old herbalist—combining in his ancient book floriculture and ethical instruction? "Flowers, through their beautie, variety of color, and exquisite forme, doe bring to a liberal and gentlemanly minde the remembrance ofhonestie, comeliness, and all kinds of virtues. For it woulde be an unseemly thing for him that dothe looke upon and handle faire and beautiful things to have his minde not faire, but filthy and depraved."

The Japanese, in their days of heathendom, celebrated with great care their ancient "Festival of Departed Spirits." A fire was then built in front of every house in the empire as a signal or invitation for all the departed members of the house to revisit their old homes.

So tonight, with pulses slowed down to peace, musing in the quiet of this sleepy garden, I keep the "Festival of Departed Spirits," and, signaling to the unseen, hear in the tender silence faint footfalls of the departed along the familiar garden ways.

Said the dear Lady (who at one time in her life was much fascinated by Spiritualism, and wont to map out with great accuracy the "Undiscovered Country" with its pursuits and privileges), referring to that time when this house and garden should no longer know her in the flesh: "I shall not forget my home on earth, I shall still be around."

And thou, "my summer child"[2](best loved and last to go), born with the roses and gifted with the sunny sweetness of a thousand Junes, but yesterday we trod together these garden paths, whose improvement was thy latest care.

The echo of thy parting footfall yet lingers in this garden, making it "holy ground." "They sin who tell us Love can die."

"Auf wiedersehen," my "summer child."

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