Among the various types of literature, the short story has become very popular in recent years. Numerous writers are fond of the principles involved in its construction, and are developing this form beyond many others. The short story is not new, for it has been developed in many lands throughout the past centuries. However, there has been a marked revival in its production recently and Wisconsin writers have been interested in developing this type. Among these we have already noticed Hamlin Garland. There will be several others mentioned in these selections, among whom the subject of this sketch is one of the most notable.Zona Gale, who has made her imaginative "Friendship Village" one of the real places in Wisconsin life, was born at Portage, Wisconsin, August 26, 1874. This city continues to be her home; and the study of its home life, its school life, its social, industrial, and religious life has afforded her the basis for generalizing upon what is true of the life of our time. Her characters are not necessarily Portage people, for they are Wisconsin people and people of other states as well. However, Portage and its life has furnished her many interesting starting points for her comments upon life in general. She has attempted to repay her community for this material furnished her by becoming an integral part of its community life. In its civic improvements, in its home life, in its schools and in its churches, she has had her work and has aspired to do her best towards making her home city beautiful and wholesome.Zona Gale remembers much of the play life and the school life in her home town during the eighties and early nineties of the last century. She has recently set forth her idealized remembrance of these early experiences in her book entitled "When I Was a Little Girl." One of these is chosen as an illustration of her work.Besides the school training afforded her by Portage, Zona Gale attended Wayland Academy at Beaver Dam, Wisconsin, and later she entered the University of Wisconsin, from which institution she received the Bachelor of Literature degree in 1895, and four years later the Master's degree.After graduation Miss Gale was employed for a time on staffs of Milwaukee and New York papers. Since 1904 she has devoted herself to writing for magazines. She spends some time in New York and the East, but most of her work is doneat her beautiful home, which overlooks the Wisconsin river at Portage.Miss Gale writes an occasional poem for some magazine. We give "The Holy Place," published in the Bookman some years ago, as an illustration of her poetry. However, it is not as a poet, but rather as a short story writer that we are remembering Zona Gale.Miss Gale's stories have appeared in the Atlantic, Appleton's, the Cosmopolitan, Everybody's, the Outlook, the Bookman, and other magazines. Her first arrangement of stories in book form, "Romance Island," appeared in 1906. A year later she published "The Loves of Pelleas and Etarre." The two characters mentioned are an old couple of seventy or more, who, under the protecting care of an old servant, Nichola, live a sort of child life. Their pranks, if such they may be called, are the kindly deeds of making others happy. The stories purport to be told by Etarre, who would have us believe that there is quite as much romance in the lives of two old people busily engaged in breaking the rules of the crabbed old nurse as there is in the lives of much younger people. They are constantly on the alert for the romance in the lives of those about them, and it would seem that no love match in their neighborhood could be a success without their assistance. The spirit that pervades the book is that of thoughtful helpfulness.We are sure to lay aside these stories with the wish that the kindly spirit and the rich enjoyment of Pelleas and Etarre might be true for all old people. We wish every aged couple might stand at the window at Christmas time and send such telegrams of bequest as these which they send to the world:"And from my spirit to yours I bequeath the hard-won knowledge that you must be true from the beginning. But if by any chance you have not been so, then you must be true from the moment you know."To this sentiment of Pelleas shall Etarre reply: "From my spirit to your spirit, I bequeath some understanding of the preciousness of love, and the need to keep it true."Stories must happen somewhere, and the capital of Zona Gale's character world is "Friendship Village." Here occur the loves of her youthful romances, the gossips of the older worldly wise. Here her clubs originate and accomplish their tasks. In this village occur the struggles for social and industrial reform in which Zona Gale is so much interested, and here, too, takes place all that great conflict for civic righteousness which brings "Friendship Village" slowly nearer the goal of perfection as she understands it. "Friendship Village" is probably located nowhere, but still Miss Gale has been so successful in writing about it that we are most sure it is our town, and some one has suggested that another good name for this place would be "Our Home Town."Two of Miss Gale's books derive their titles from this villageof hers. They are "Friendship Village" and "Friendship Village Love Stories." A short description of her "Friendship Village" will follow later. Another book based upon the village life deals with the lesson of Christmas time. It shows how the older people who have come to feel that they could not afford the expense of Christmas are brought to realize the real significance of Christmas giving.Another series of stories is linked into book form through the narrator, Calliope Marsh. It is entitled "Mothers to Men," and is an account of life at "Friendship Village."Miss Gale writes beautiful stories of how to make the better community; but what is more, she does with her own hands many things which bring about the realization of her plans. Women's club of her own city and of many other cities enjoy her aid in their plans for better conditions. Civic federations of statewide influence have her help as member and officer. Further, her own county fair has enjoyed her presence and her efforts to advance civic improvement through her friendly counsel to those who pause to talk with her.Her writing is here illustrated in part from her recent book, "When I Was a Little Girl." Two of the little girls of the neighborhood had been shut up in their rooms one fine summer day as punishment for the infraction of some home regulation, whereupon a discussion among the free playmates arose as to the reason for punishment. As the discussion waxed perplexing, the little girls happened upon Grandmother Beers, who took up the discussion and enlightened the children. What she had heard of their conversation caused her to break in with the statement, "Wicked? I didn't know you knew such a word." The following discussion then takes place:
Among the various types of literature, the short story has become very popular in recent years. Numerous writers are fond of the principles involved in its construction, and are developing this form beyond many others. The short story is not new, for it has been developed in many lands throughout the past centuries. However, there has been a marked revival in its production recently and Wisconsin writers have been interested in developing this type. Among these we have already noticed Hamlin Garland. There will be several others mentioned in these selections, among whom the subject of this sketch is one of the most notable.
Zona Gale, who has made her imaginative "Friendship Village" one of the real places in Wisconsin life, was born at Portage, Wisconsin, August 26, 1874. This city continues to be her home; and the study of its home life, its school life, its social, industrial, and religious life has afforded her the basis for generalizing upon what is true of the life of our time. Her characters are not necessarily Portage people, for they are Wisconsin people and people of other states as well. However, Portage and its life has furnished her many interesting starting points for her comments upon life in general. She has attempted to repay her community for this material furnished her by becoming an integral part of its community life. In its civic improvements, in its home life, in its schools and in its churches, she has had her work and has aspired to do her best towards making her home city beautiful and wholesome.
Zona Gale remembers much of the play life and the school life in her home town during the eighties and early nineties of the last century. She has recently set forth her idealized remembrance of these early experiences in her book entitled "When I Was a Little Girl." One of these is chosen as an illustration of her work.
Besides the school training afforded her by Portage, Zona Gale attended Wayland Academy at Beaver Dam, Wisconsin, and later she entered the University of Wisconsin, from which institution she received the Bachelor of Literature degree in 1895, and four years later the Master's degree.
After graduation Miss Gale was employed for a time on staffs of Milwaukee and New York papers. Since 1904 she has devoted herself to writing for magazines. She spends some time in New York and the East, but most of her work is doneat her beautiful home, which overlooks the Wisconsin river at Portage.
Miss Gale writes an occasional poem for some magazine. We give "The Holy Place," published in the Bookman some years ago, as an illustration of her poetry. However, it is not as a poet, but rather as a short story writer that we are remembering Zona Gale.
Miss Gale's stories have appeared in the Atlantic, Appleton's, the Cosmopolitan, Everybody's, the Outlook, the Bookman, and other magazines. Her first arrangement of stories in book form, "Romance Island," appeared in 1906. A year later she published "The Loves of Pelleas and Etarre." The two characters mentioned are an old couple of seventy or more, who, under the protecting care of an old servant, Nichola, live a sort of child life. Their pranks, if such they may be called, are the kindly deeds of making others happy. The stories purport to be told by Etarre, who would have us believe that there is quite as much romance in the lives of two old people busily engaged in breaking the rules of the crabbed old nurse as there is in the lives of much younger people. They are constantly on the alert for the romance in the lives of those about them, and it would seem that no love match in their neighborhood could be a success without their assistance. The spirit that pervades the book is that of thoughtful helpfulness.
We are sure to lay aside these stories with the wish that the kindly spirit and the rich enjoyment of Pelleas and Etarre might be true for all old people. We wish every aged couple might stand at the window at Christmas time and send such telegrams of bequest as these which they send to the world:
"And from my spirit to yours I bequeath the hard-won knowledge that you must be true from the beginning. But if by any chance you have not been so, then you must be true from the moment you know."
To this sentiment of Pelleas shall Etarre reply: "From my spirit to your spirit, I bequeath some understanding of the preciousness of love, and the need to keep it true."
Stories must happen somewhere, and the capital of Zona Gale's character world is "Friendship Village." Here occur the loves of her youthful romances, the gossips of the older worldly wise. Here her clubs originate and accomplish their tasks. In this village occur the struggles for social and industrial reform in which Zona Gale is so much interested, and here, too, takes place all that great conflict for civic righteousness which brings "Friendship Village" slowly nearer the goal of perfection as she understands it. "Friendship Village" is probably located nowhere, but still Miss Gale has been so successful in writing about it that we are most sure it is our town, and some one has suggested that another good name for this place would be "Our Home Town."
Two of Miss Gale's books derive their titles from this villageof hers. They are "Friendship Village" and "Friendship Village Love Stories." A short description of her "Friendship Village" will follow later. Another book based upon the village life deals with the lesson of Christmas time. It shows how the older people who have come to feel that they could not afford the expense of Christmas are brought to realize the real significance of Christmas giving.
Another series of stories is linked into book form through the narrator, Calliope Marsh. It is entitled "Mothers to Men," and is an account of life at "Friendship Village."
Miss Gale writes beautiful stories of how to make the better community; but what is more, she does with her own hands many things which bring about the realization of her plans. Women's club of her own city and of many other cities enjoy her aid in their plans for better conditions. Civic federations of statewide influence have her help as member and officer. Further, her own county fair has enjoyed her presence and her efforts to advance civic improvement through her friendly counsel to those who pause to talk with her.
Her writing is here illustrated in part from her recent book, "When I Was a Little Girl." Two of the little girls of the neighborhood had been shut up in their rooms one fine summer day as punishment for the infraction of some home regulation, whereupon a discussion among the free playmates arose as to the reason for punishment. As the discussion waxed perplexing, the little girls happened upon Grandmother Beers, who took up the discussion and enlightened the children. What she had heard of their conversation caused her to break in with the statement, "Wicked? I didn't know you knew such a word." The following discussion then takes place:
ZONA GALEZONA GALE
From "WHEN I WAS A LITTLE GIRL." Copyright, 1913, by the Macmillan Co.
"It's a word you learn at Sunday School," I explained importantly.
"Come over here and tell me about it," she invited, and led the way to the Eating Apple tree. And she sat down in the swing! Of course, whatever difference of condition exists between your grandmother and yourself vanishes when she sits down casually in your swing.
Well, Grandmother Beers was one who knew how to play with us, and I was always half expecting her topropose a new game. But that day, as she sat in the swing, her eyes were not twinkling at the corners.
"What does it mean?" she asked us. "What does wicked mean?"
"It's what you aren't to be."
I took the brunt of the reply, because I was the relative of the questioner.
"Why not?" asked grandmother.
"Why not?" Oh, we all knew that. We responded instantly, and out came the results of the training of all the families.
"Because your Mother and your Father say you can't," said Betty Rodman.
"Because it makes your mother feel bad," said Calista.
"Because God don't want us to," said I.
"Delie says," Betty added, "it's because, if you are, when you grow up people won't think anything of you."
Grandmother Beers held her sweet-peas to her face.
"If," she said, after a moment, "you wanted to do something wicked more than you ever wanted to do anything in the world—as much as you'd want a drink tomorrow if you hadn't had one to-day—and if nobody ever knew—would any of those reasons keep you from doing it?"
We consulted one another's look, and shifted. We knew how thirsty that would be. Already we were thirsty, in thinking about it.
"If I were in your place," grandmother said, "I'm not sure those reasons would keep me. I rather think they wouldn't—always."
We stared at her. It was true that they didn'talways keep us. Were not two of us "in our rooms" even now?
Grandmother leaned forward—I know how the shadows of the apple leaves fell on her black lace cap and how the pink sweet-peas were reflected in her delicate face.
"Suppose," she said, "that instead of any of those reasons somebody gave you this reason: That the earth is a great flower—a flower that has never really blossomed yet. And that, when it blossoms, life is going to be more beautiful than we have ever dreamed, or than fairy stories have ever pretended. And suppose our doing one way, and not another, makes the flower come a little nearer to blossom. But our doing the other way puts back the time when it can blossom. Then which would you want to do?"
"Oh, make it grow, make it grow," we all cried; and I felt a secret relief: Grandmother was playing a game with us, after all.
"And suppose that everything made a difference to it," she went on, "every little thing—from telling a lie, on down to going to get a drink for somebody and drinking first yourself out in the kitchen. Suppose that everything made a difference, from hurting somebody on purpose, down to making up the bed and pulling the bedspread tight so that the wrinkles in the blanket won't show."
At this we looked at one another in some consternation. How did grandmother know?
"Until after awhile," she said, "you should find out that everything—loving, going to school, playing, working, bathing, sleeping, were all just to make this flower grow. Wouldn't it be fun to help?"
"Yes. Oh, yes." We were all agreed about that. It would be great fun to help.
"Well, then suppose," said grandmother, "that as you helped, you found out something else: that in each of you, say, where your heart is, or where your breath is, there was a flower trying to blossom through! And that only as you help the earth flower to blossom could your flower blossom. And that your doing one way would make your flower droop its head and grow dark and shrivel up. But your doing the other way would make it grow, and turn beautiful colors—so that, bye and bye, every one of your bodies would be just a sheath for this flower. Which way then would you rather do?"
"Oh, make it grow, make it grow," we said again.
And Mary Elizabeth added longingly: "Wouldn't it be fun if it was true?"
"It is true," said Grandmother Beers.
She sat there, softly smiling over her pink sweet-peas. We looked at her silently. Then I remembered that her face had always seemed to me to be somehow light within. May be it was her flower showing through!
"Grandmother!" I cried, "is it true—is it true?"
"It is true," she repeated. "And whether the earth flower and other people's flowers and your flower are to bloom or not is what living is about. And everything makes a difference. Isn't that a good reason for not being wicked?"
We all looked up in her face, something in us leaping and answering to what she said. And I know that we understood.
"Oh," Mary Elizabeth whispered presently to Betty, "hurry home and tell Margaret Amelia. It'll make it so much easier when she comes out to her supper."
That night, on the porch, alone with Mother and Father, I inquired into something that still was not clear.
"But how can you tell which things are wicked? And which ones are wrong and which things are right?"
Father put out his hand and touched my hand. He was looking at me with a look that I knew—and his smile for me is like no other smile that I have ever known.
"Something will tell you," he said, "always."
"Always?" I doubted.
"Always," he said. "There will be other voices. But if you listen, something will tell you always. And it is all you need."
I looked at Mother. And by her nod and her quiet look I perceived that all this had been known about for a long time.
"That is why Grandma Bard is coming to live with us," she said, "not just because we wanted her, but because—that said so."
In us all a flower—and something saying something! And the earth flower trying to blossom ... I looked down the street: at Mr. Branchett walking in his garden, at the light shining from windows, at the folk sauntering on the sidewalk, and toward town where the band was playing. We all knew about this together then. This was why everything was! And there were years and years to make it come through.
What if I, alone among them all, had never found out.
At silver of gray lines; at look of laceAbout a woman's throat; at little feet,Curled close in hand that clings; at stir of sweetOld gardens; at the flow and dip and graceOf sweeping fabric; at the phantom race of shadow ripples in the tides of wheat,Where great, still spirits murmur as they meet—Souls see Their God as in a holy place.What of the wrinkled face, the poor, coarse hands,Dead leaves and ruined walls in fields that stand,Rattling sharp husks? Of little feet that strayFrom clinging hands, and never find the way?He knows no holy place for whom the clodStands not an altar to the living God.
At silver of gray lines; at look of laceAbout a woman's throat; at little feet,Curled close in hand that clings; at stir of sweetOld gardens; at the flow and dip and graceOf sweeping fabric; at the phantom race of shadow ripples in the tides of wheat,Where great, still spirits murmur as they meet—Souls see Their God as in a holy place.What of the wrinkled face, the poor, coarse hands,Dead leaves and ruined walls in fields that stand,Rattling sharp husks? Of little feet that strayFrom clinging hands, and never find the way?He knows no holy place for whom the clodStands not an altar to the living God.
Published by Permission of The Macmillan Co., New York.
We are one long street, rambling from sun to sun, inheriting traits of the parent country road which we unite. And we are cross streets, members of the same family, properly imitative, proving our ancestorship in a primeval genius for trees, or bursting out in inexplicable weaknesses of Court-House, Engine-House, Town Hall, and Telephone Office. Ultimately our stock dwindled out in a slaughter-house and a few detached houses of milk men. The cemetery is delicately put behind them, under a hill. There is nothing mediaeval in all this, one would say. But then see how we wear our rue:
When one of us telephones, she will scrupulously ask for the number, for it says so at the top of every page. "Give me 1-1," she will put it, with an impersonality as fine as if she were calling for four figures. And central will answer:
"Well, I just saw Mis' Holcomb go 'crost the street. I'll call you, if you want, when she comes back."
Or, "I don't think you better ring the Helman's just now. They were awake 'most all night with one o' Mis' Helman's attacks."
Or, "Doctor June's invited to Mis' Syke's for tea. Shall I give him to you there?"
The telephone is modern enough. But in our use of it, is there not a flavor as of an Elder Time, to be caught by Them of Many Years from Now? And already we may catch this flavor, as our Britain great-great-lady grandmothers, and more, may have been conscious of the old fashion of sitting in bowers. If only they were conscious like that! To be sure of it would be to touch their hands in the margin of the ballad books.
Or we telephone to the Livery Barn and Boarding Stable for the little blacks, celebrated for their self-control in encounters with the Proudfits' motor car. The stable-boy answers that the little blacks are at "the funeral." And after he has gone off to ask his employer, who in his unofficial moments is our neighbor, our church choir bass, our landlord even, comes and tells us that, after all, we may have the little blacks, and he himself brings them round at once—the same little blacks that we meant all along. And when, quite naturally, we wonder at the boy's version, we learn: "Oh, why, the blacks was standin' just acrost the street, waitin' at the church door, hitched to the hearse. I took 'em out an' put in the bays. I says to myself: 'The corpse won't care.'" Some way the Proudfits' car and the stable telephone must themselves have slipped from modernity to old fashioned before that incident shall quite come into its own.
So it is with certain of our domestic ways. For example, Mis' Postmaster Sykes—in Friendship Village every woman assumes for given name the employment of her husband—has some fine modern china and much solid silver in extremely good taste, so much, indeed, that sheis wont to confess to having cleaned forty, or sixty, or seventy-five pieces—"seventy-five pieces of solid silver have I cleaned this morning. You can say what you want to, nice things are a rill care." Yet, surely this is the proper conjunction, Mis' Sykes is currently reported to rise in the night preceding the day of her house cleaning, and to take her carpets out in the back yard, and there softly to sweep and sweep them so that, at their official cleaning next day, the neighbors may witness how little dirt is whipped out on the line. Ought she not to have old-fashioned silver and egg-shell china and drop-leaf mahogany to fit the practice instead of dazzling and wild-rose patterns in "solid and art curtains, and mission chairs and a white-enameled refrigerator, and a gas range?"
We have the latest funeral equipment—black broadcloth-covered supports, a coffin carriage for up-and-down the aisles, natural palms to order, and the pulleys to "Let them down slow"; and yet our individual funeral capacity has been such that we can tell what every woman who has died in Friendship for years has "done without": Mis' Grocer Stew, her of all folks, has done without new-style flat-irons; Mis' Worth had used the bread pan to wash dishes in; Mis' Jeweler Sprague—the first Mis' Sprague—had had only six bread and butter knives, her, that could get wholesale, too ... and we have little maid-servants who answer our bells in caps and trays, so to say; but this savour of jestership is authentic, for any one of them is likely to do as of late did Mis' Holcomb—that was Mame Bliss's maid—answer at dinner-with-guests, that there were no more mashed potatoes, "or else, there won't be any left to warm up for your breakfast."... And though we have our daily newspaper,receiving Associated Press service, yet, as Mis' Amandy Toplady observed, it is "only very lately that they have mentioned in the Daily the birth of a child, or any thing that had anything of a tang to it."
We put new wine in old bottles, but also we use new bottles to hold our old wine. For, consider the name of our main street: is this Main or Clark or Cook or Grand Street, according to the register of the main streets of town? Instead, for its half-mile of village life, the Plank Road, macadamized and arc-lighted, is called Daphne Street. Daphne Street! I love to wonder why. Did our dear Doctor June's father name it when he set the five hundred elms and oaks which glorify us? Or did Daphne herself take this way on the day of her flight, so that when they came to draught the town, they recognized that it was Daphne Street, and so were spared the trouble of naming it? Or did the Future anonymously toss us back the suggestion, thinking of some day of her own when she might remember us and say, "Daphne Street!" Already some of us smile with a secret nod at something when we direct a stranger, "You will find the Telegraph and Cable Office two blocks down, on Daphne Street." "The Commercial Travelers' House, the Abigail Arnold Home Bakery, the Post Office and Armory are in the same block on Daphne Street." Or, "The Electric Light Office is at the corner of Dunn and Daphne." It is not wonderful that Daphne herself, at seeing these things, did not stay, but lifted her laurels somewhat nearer Tempe—although there are those of us who like to fancy that she is here all the time in our Daphne-Street magic: the fire bell, the tulip beds, and the twilight bonfires. For how else, in all reason, has the name persisted?
Of late a new doctor has appeared—one may say, hasabounded: a surgeon who, such is his zeal, will almost perform an operation over the telephone and, we have come somewhat cynically to believe, would prefer doing so to not operating at all.
Thus the New shoulders the Old, and our transition is still swift enough to be a spectacle, as was its earlier phase which gave our Middle West to cabins and plough horses, with a tendency away from wigwams and bob-whites. And in this local warfare between Old and New a chief figure is Calliope Marsh. She is a little rosy, wrinkled creature officially—though no other than officially—pertaining to sixty years; mender of lace, seller of extracts, and music teacher, but of the three she thinks of the last as her true vocation.
With us all the friendship idea prevails: we accept what Progress sends, but we regard it in our own fashion. Our improvements, like our entertainments, our funerals, our holidays, and our very loves, are but Friendship-Village exponents of the modern spirit. Perhaps, in a tenderer significance than she meant, Calliope characterized us when she said:
"This town is more like a back door than a front—or, givin' it full credit, anyhow—it's no more'n a side door, with no vines."
The subject of this sketch has lived in Wisconsin since the seventh year of his life. He was born at Johnsburgh, New York, on September 16, 1848. With his parents he removed to Wisconsin, where he came to love the products of the soil and the processes by which they might be made more and more beautiful. Not merely plant growth has been of interest to him; the development of Wisconsin institutions also, especially its schools, has been of the most vital concern to him. Few men have been more deeply interested in the schools of any community than has Mr. Rexford in the schools of his village, and few have more effectively encouraged the teaching of agricultural facts in the schools than he.Mr. Rexford's life has been spent quite largely at his country home near Shiocton, where he has found much of the material for the line of writing in which he has been especially interested. The country home has furnished him with opportunities for pleasurable development of which few have even dreamed. His career is worth studying, if for no other reason than to disprove the thought that rural life is a life of toil and hardship devoid of the privilege of acquiring that finer sense for the beautiful. Mr. Rexford's life has been rich in the companionship of people and of animals and plants. This last has given that training which makes him an authority along the line of floriculture.Mr. Rexford received his training beyond the rural schools at Lawrence College, Appleton, where he pursued the college course until his senior year. When he had gone thus far in his course, the care of his home demanded his attention; and, characteristic of the man, he sacrificed his own personal interests for the greater good he might do. The city of Appleton and its institutions, especially its college and its churches, still possess strong bonds of interest for him. The college, in turn, is justly proud of his attainments and conferred upon him the degree of Doctor of Literature in 1908.After his school career, Mr. Rexford took up his work at his country home near Shiocton, where he has been actively associated with all phases of the development of community life. Good roads found a strong advocate in him; the introduction and development of farm machinery and farm improvements have found him a leader. For school programs and forchurch exercises he has contributed much in providing music, or in directing the musical part of the program.Early in life Mr. Rexford conceived the notion of sharing his best thoughts with his fellows through expressing them for publication, and it is said that he has been a contributor to the press since the age of fourteen. He has written extensively for a large number of magazines. The Ladies' Home Journal and Outing have published more of his articles, perhaps, than any other magazines. These magazine contributions comprise poems and articles upon gardening, flower culture, and the making of the country home. While the articles show extensive scientific knowledge, they are so written as to be easily comprehended by the ordinary reader.The various articles have been collected into book form and the following discussions upon the garden and its plants were listed in the 1912 catalogs: Flowers, How to Grow Them; Four Seasons in the Garden; Home Floriculture; Home Garden; Indoor Gardening. These discussions are made up largely of Mr. Rexford's own experience in doing the things he writes about. From among the flowers in his living room or the plants in his garden you can easily imagine him in his quiet, neighborly way telling you the things that will aid you in successfully raising flowers or vegetables. We are closely drawn to him, for there is no show about what he does, but that simple kindliness of one who desires to help.While extracts from books of the type above listed would not generally form good selections for reading, yet so different is the style of composition of Mr. Rexford that we feel that a few illustrations here will be of great interest as showing the qualities above mentioned. The first two selections are taken from his "Home Floriculture," a book published by the Orange Judd Company, and will illustrate Mr. Rexford's intense interest in his plants as well as his simple style in telling us the things of help to us.
The subject of this sketch has lived in Wisconsin since the seventh year of his life. He was born at Johnsburgh, New York, on September 16, 1848. With his parents he removed to Wisconsin, where he came to love the products of the soil and the processes by which they might be made more and more beautiful. Not merely plant growth has been of interest to him; the development of Wisconsin institutions also, especially its schools, has been of the most vital concern to him. Few men have been more deeply interested in the schools of any community than has Mr. Rexford in the schools of his village, and few have more effectively encouraged the teaching of agricultural facts in the schools than he.
Mr. Rexford's life has been spent quite largely at his country home near Shiocton, where he has found much of the material for the line of writing in which he has been especially interested. The country home has furnished him with opportunities for pleasurable development of which few have even dreamed. His career is worth studying, if for no other reason than to disprove the thought that rural life is a life of toil and hardship devoid of the privilege of acquiring that finer sense for the beautiful. Mr. Rexford's life has been rich in the companionship of people and of animals and plants. This last has given that training which makes him an authority along the line of floriculture.
Mr. Rexford received his training beyond the rural schools at Lawrence College, Appleton, where he pursued the college course until his senior year. When he had gone thus far in his course, the care of his home demanded his attention; and, characteristic of the man, he sacrificed his own personal interests for the greater good he might do. The city of Appleton and its institutions, especially its college and its churches, still possess strong bonds of interest for him. The college, in turn, is justly proud of his attainments and conferred upon him the degree of Doctor of Literature in 1908.
After his school career, Mr. Rexford took up his work at his country home near Shiocton, where he has been actively associated with all phases of the development of community life. Good roads found a strong advocate in him; the introduction and development of farm machinery and farm improvements have found him a leader. For school programs and forchurch exercises he has contributed much in providing music, or in directing the musical part of the program.
Early in life Mr. Rexford conceived the notion of sharing his best thoughts with his fellows through expressing them for publication, and it is said that he has been a contributor to the press since the age of fourteen. He has written extensively for a large number of magazines. The Ladies' Home Journal and Outing have published more of his articles, perhaps, than any other magazines. These magazine contributions comprise poems and articles upon gardening, flower culture, and the making of the country home. While the articles show extensive scientific knowledge, they are so written as to be easily comprehended by the ordinary reader.
The various articles have been collected into book form and the following discussions upon the garden and its plants were listed in the 1912 catalogs: Flowers, How to Grow Them; Four Seasons in the Garden; Home Floriculture; Home Garden; Indoor Gardening. These discussions are made up largely of Mr. Rexford's own experience in doing the things he writes about. From among the flowers in his living room or the plants in his garden you can easily imagine him in his quiet, neighborly way telling you the things that will aid you in successfully raising flowers or vegetables. We are closely drawn to him, for there is no show about what he does, but that simple kindliness of one who desires to help.
While extracts from books of the type above listed would not generally form good selections for reading, yet so different is the style of composition of Mr. Rexford that we feel that a few illustrations here will be of great interest as showing the qualities above mentioned. The first two selections are taken from his "Home Floriculture," a book published by the Orange Judd Company, and will illustrate Mr. Rexford's intense interest in his plants as well as his simple style in telling us the things of help to us.
EBEN E. REXFORDEBEN E. REXFORD
Printed by permission of Orange, Judd Co.
Some persons water their plants every day, without regard to the season, and give about the same quantity one day that they do another. The natural result is that in winter their plants are weak and spindling, with yellow leaves, and few, if any, flowers. The owner will tell you that she "don't see what ails her plants." She is sure she gives them all the water they need, and she "neverforgets to do this." If she were to forget to do this occasionally it would be a great deal better for the plants. In summer the evaporation of moisture from the soil is rapid, because of warmth and wind, but in winter this goes on slowly, and the amount of water given should be regulated by the ability of the soil to dispose of it. Where too much is given, as has been said in the chapter on planting, the soil is reduced to a condition of muddiness, unless good drainage has been provided, and those who give too much water generally neglect this item.
Another woman will give water in little driblets, "whenever she happens to think of it." The result is that her plants are chronic sufferers from the lack of moisture at the roots. The wonder is that they contrive to exist. Turn them out of their pots and you will generally find that the upper portion of the soil is moist, and in this what few roots there are have spread themselves, while below it, the soil is almost as dry as dust, and no root could live there. Plants grown under these conditions are almost always dwarf and sickly specimens, with but few leaves and most of these yellow ones. You will find that plants grown under either condition are much more subject to attacks of insects than healthy plants are.
There is only one rule to be governed in watering plants that I have a knowledge of and that is this: Never apply water to any plant until the surface of the soil looks dry. When you do give water, give enough of it to thoroughly saturate the soil. If some runs through at the bottom of the pot, you can be sure that the whole ball of earth is moist.
I follow this rule with good results. Of course, like all other rules, it has exceptions. For instance, a calla, being a sort of aquatic plant, requires very much morewater than a geranium. A cactus, being a native of hot, dry climates, requires but very little. The florist who is interested in his plants will study their habits, in order to understand the requirements of each, and will soon be able to treat them intelligently. He will soon be able to tell at a glance when a plant requires more water. He will know what kinds to give a good deal to, and what kinds to water sparingly. Until he has acquired this ability it is well for him to adhere to the rule given above, for if he follows it, he cannot go very far wrong in either direction. Let the water used be of about the same temperature as that of the room in which the plants are. I am often asked which is best, hard or soft water. I have tried both and see little difference.
Many persons fail to attain success with plants in baskets and window boxes. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, the failure is due to lack of water. A basket is exposed to dry air on all sides, and is suspended near the ceiling, as a general thing, where the air is much warmer than below; consequently the evaporation takes place more rapidly than from the pot on the window sill. Because it is somewhat difficult to get at, water is not given as often as required, and then generally in smaller quantities than is needed. The first thing you know, your plants are turning yellow, and dropping their leaves, and soon they are in such a condition that you throw them away in disgust, and conclude that you haven't "the knack" of growing good basket plants. All the trouble comes from an insufficient water supply.
There are two methods by which you may make it easier to attend to the needs of the plants. One is, to have the baskets suspended by long cords running over pulleys, by which you can lower them into a tub of water,where they can be left until they are thoroughly soaked through. The other is this: Take a tin can and punch a hole through the bottom of it. Let this hole be large enough to allow the water to escape, drop by drop. Set this on top of your basket and arrange the foliage to cover it.
If the hole is not so large as it ought to be, the soil will not be kept moist all through. In this case, make it larger. A little observation will enable you to regulate matters in such a manner as to secure just the flow of water needed. By the "tin-can method" of watering basket plants, the trouble of watering in the ordinary way will be done away with, and the results will be extremely satisfactory.
Plants can be grown nearly as well in the window box as in the open ground if enough water is given to keep the soil moist, all through, at all times. The "little-and-often" plan, spoken of in this chapter, will lead to dismal failure in the care of window boxes. Apply at least a pailful of water every day, in warm weather. If this is done, there need be no failure. If those who have failed heretofore will bear this in mind, and follow the advice given, they may have window boxes that will make their windows beautiful during the entire summer, with very little trouble.
No part of my garden affords me more pleasure than my bed of Tea Roses. I cut dozens of flowers from it nearly every day from June to the coming of cold weather, for buttonhole and corsage bouquets, and for use on the table, and in the parlor. One fine rose and a bit of foliage is a bouquet in itself. If I could have but one bedof flowers, it should be a bed of Tea Roses—and yet, I should want a bed of Pansies to supplement the Roses; therefore, a bed of each would be a necessity.
If you want to give a friend a buttonhole nosegay that shall be "just as pretty as it can be," you must have a bed of these Roses to draw from. A half-blown flower of Meteor, with its velvety, crimson petals, and a bud of Perle des Jardins, just showing its golden heart, with a leaf or two of green to set off the flowers—what a lovely harmony of rich color! Or, if your taste inclines you to more delicate colors, take a bud of Luciole, and a Catherine Mermet when its petals are just falling apart. Nothing can be lovelier, you think, till you have put half open Perle des Jardins with a dark purple or azure-blue Pansy. When you have done that, you are charmed with the manner in which the two colors harmonize and intensify each other, and you are sure there was never anything finer for a flower-lover to feast his eyes on. Put a tawny Safrano or Sunset bud with a purple Pansy and see what a royal combination of colors you have in the simple arrangement. Be sure to have a bed of Tea Roses, and make combinations to suit yourself.
In order to make a success of your bed of Tea Roses—though perhaps I ought to say ever-bloomers, for probably your selection will include other varieties than the Tea—you must have a rich soil for them to grow in. When a branch has borne flowers, it must be cut back to some strong bud. This bud will, if your soil is rich enough to encourage vigorous growth, soon become a branch, and produce flowers. It is by constant cutting back that you secure new growth, if the soil is in a condition to help it along, and only by securing this steady production and development of new branches can you expect manyflowers. All depends on that. If proper treatment is given, you need not be without flowers, unless you cut them all, from June to October.
If I were to name all the desirable varieties, I might fill several pages with the list. Look over the catalogs of the florists and you will see that the variety is almost endless. If you do not care to invest money enough to secure the newer varieties, tell the dealer to whom you give your patronage what you want the plants for, and he will make a selection which will include some of the best kinds, and which will be sure to give you as good satisfaction as you would get from a selection of your own. Better, in most instances, for you make your selection from the description in the catalog, while he would select from his knowledge of the merits of the flower.
By all means have a bed of these most sweet and lovely Roses. If the season happens to be a hot and dry one, mulch your rose bed with grass clippings from the lawn. Spread them evenly about the plants, to a depth of two or three inches, in such a manner as to cover the entire bed. By so doing, you prevent rapid evaporation and the roots of the plant are kept much cooler than when strong sunshine is allowed to beat down upon the surface of the bed. When the mulch begins to decay, remove it, and apply fresh clippings. About the middle of the season give the soil a liberal dressing of fine bone meal, working it well about the roots of the plants; or, if you can get it, use old cow manure. Whatever you apply, be sure it gets where the roots can make use of it.
While the above illustrations show Mr. Rexford's interests in the affairs of home life and demonstrate his simple, direct way of saying what he wishes us to know, yet they do not manifest that finer literary sense of which he is possessed. They are scientific thought, clearly and directly expressed, but he has that sentiment of the heart and that keen appreciation of therelation of sound to sense which marks him as the poet and song writer.His first book publication of a poetic nature is a long narrative poem entitled "Brother and Lover." It is a story of Civil War times and is rich in the sentiment of friendship which, to his mind, endures not merely through this life, but abides throughout all time. The plot of this story is very simple, involving but three characters, a young woman, her brother, and her lover.Mr. Rexford's last collection of poems appeared in 1911 under the title "Pansies and Rosemary." He explained this title in the following quotation: "Pansies—for thoughts, and Rosemary—that's for remembrance." Many of the thoughts in these poems seem to be such as come to us at eventide, for they reflect many sentiments concerning death. It would seem that Mr. Rexford has cherished those occasions which bring a community in humility and close sympathy, to point the significance of the great lesson of hope, in the most beautiful language that he commands.In a few of these poems, dialect has been chosen as the form of expression. One of this type has been selected for this reading. It illustrates the fact that in these simple acts of community effort to do the constructive, there always comes more joy than can come from the polished product of practised art.Naturally we expect one who loved the beauty of the landscape and the color of petal and the fragrance of flower to be more or less of a Nature poet. To him Nature is the great teacher of God's handiwork, and imparts to us solace and joy. Mr. Rexford has also chosen to disregard the life of the city for the life of the country village, where every individual to the youngest school child may know him and reverence him for his kindly helpfulness. He loves the humble worker in the common walks of life. "The Two Singers" given later will illustrate his theory of usefulness.He does not conceal the presence of evil, nor does he condone it, but he does show the great strength which may be attained through resistance of it. The unfruitful tree illustrates this point.Mr. Rexford has always been a great lover of music. He has led the village choir and he has played the organ at the church service for many years. He has written not merely the words that he sings, but he has also set many of his little lyrics to music. When the village school has needed a song for a special program, when the church service has been in special need, or when the Memorial Day program could be rendered more sacredly helpful by his music, Mr. Rexford has always been ready to assist. He has kindly consented to our publishing his famous song, "Silver Threads Among the Gold," and its sequel, "When Silver Threads are Gold Again."
While the above illustrations show Mr. Rexford's interests in the affairs of home life and demonstrate his simple, direct way of saying what he wishes us to know, yet they do not manifest that finer literary sense of which he is possessed. They are scientific thought, clearly and directly expressed, but he has that sentiment of the heart and that keen appreciation of therelation of sound to sense which marks him as the poet and song writer.
His first book publication of a poetic nature is a long narrative poem entitled "Brother and Lover." It is a story of Civil War times and is rich in the sentiment of friendship which, to his mind, endures not merely through this life, but abides throughout all time. The plot of this story is very simple, involving but three characters, a young woman, her brother, and her lover.
Mr. Rexford's last collection of poems appeared in 1911 under the title "Pansies and Rosemary." He explained this title in the following quotation: "Pansies—for thoughts, and Rosemary—that's for remembrance." Many of the thoughts in these poems seem to be such as come to us at eventide, for they reflect many sentiments concerning death. It would seem that Mr. Rexford has cherished those occasions which bring a community in humility and close sympathy, to point the significance of the great lesson of hope, in the most beautiful language that he commands.
In a few of these poems, dialect has been chosen as the form of expression. One of this type has been selected for this reading. It illustrates the fact that in these simple acts of community effort to do the constructive, there always comes more joy than can come from the polished product of practised art.
Naturally we expect one who loved the beauty of the landscape and the color of petal and the fragrance of flower to be more or less of a Nature poet. To him Nature is the great teacher of God's handiwork, and imparts to us solace and joy. Mr. Rexford has also chosen to disregard the life of the city for the life of the country village, where every individual to the youngest school child may know him and reverence him for his kindly helpfulness. He loves the humble worker in the common walks of life. "The Two Singers" given later will illustrate his theory of usefulness.
He does not conceal the presence of evil, nor does he condone it, but he does show the great strength which may be attained through resistance of it. The unfruitful tree illustrates this point.
Mr. Rexford has always been a great lover of music. He has led the village choir and he has played the organ at the church service for many years. He has written not merely the words that he sings, but he has also set many of his little lyrics to music. When the village school has needed a song for a special program, when the church service has been in special need, or when the Memorial Day program could be rendered more sacredly helpful by his music, Mr. Rexford has always been ready to assist. He has kindly consented to our publishing his famous song, "Silver Threads Among the Gold," and its sequel, "When Silver Threads are Gold Again."
All of these poems are reprinted with consent of the author and the J. B. Lippincott Publishing Co.
I have be'n in city churches where the way-up singers sing,Till their thousand'-dollar voices make the very rafters ring.Seems as if the sound kep' clim'in' till it got lost in the spire,But I all the time was wishin' 'twas our dear ol' village choir.Somehow, highfallutin' singin' never seemed to touch the spotLike the ol' religious singin' o' the times I hain't forgot;Jest the ol' hymns over'n over—nothin' city folks desire,But some heart was in the singin' of that same ol' village choir.Nothin' airy 'bout the singers—land; they never tho't o' style,But they made you think o' Heaven an' of good things all the while,Made you feel as ef the angels couldn't help a comin' nigherJest to lis'en to the music made by that ol' village choir.When they sung ol' Coronation, w'y—it somehow seemed to gripAn' to take your heart up with it on a sort o' 'scursion tripTo the place where God stays! Of'en heart an' soul seemed all afireWith the glory that they sung of in the dear ol' village choir.Then they'd have us all a-cryin' when they sung, at funril-time,Soft, an' low, an' sweet, an' sollum hymns that told about the climeWhere there's never death or partin', an' the mourners never'd tireLis'nen' to the words o' comfort sung by the ol' village choir.You c'n have your city singin' if you think it fills the bill;—Give me the ol'-fashioned music of the ol' church on the hill.Music with no style about it—nothin' fine folks would admire,But it makes me homesick, thinkin' o' the dear ol' village choir.
I have be'n in city churches where the way-up singers sing,Till their thousand'-dollar voices make the very rafters ring.Seems as if the sound kep' clim'in' till it got lost in the spire,But I all the time was wishin' 'twas our dear ol' village choir.
Somehow, highfallutin' singin' never seemed to touch the spotLike the ol' religious singin' o' the times I hain't forgot;Jest the ol' hymns over'n over—nothin' city folks desire,But some heart was in the singin' of that same ol' village choir.
Nothin' airy 'bout the singers—land; they never tho't o' style,But they made you think o' Heaven an' of good things all the while,Made you feel as ef the angels couldn't help a comin' nigherJest to lis'en to the music made by that ol' village choir.
When they sung ol' Coronation, w'y—it somehow seemed to gripAn' to take your heart up with it on a sort o' 'scursion tripTo the place where God stays! Of'en heart an' soul seemed all afireWith the glory that they sung of in the dear ol' village choir.
Then they'd have us all a-cryin' when they sung, at funril-time,Soft, an' low, an' sweet, an' sollum hymns that told about the climeWhere there's never death or partin', an' the mourners never'd tireLis'nen' to the words o' comfort sung by the ol' village choir.
You c'n have your city singin' if you think it fills the bill;—Give me the ol'-fashioned music of the ol' church on the hill.Music with no style about it—nothin' fine folks would admire,But it makes me homesick, thinkin' o' the dear ol' village choir.
I know two of this earth's singers; one longed to climb and standUpon the heights o'er looking the peaceful lower land,"There where great souls have gathered, the few great souls of earth,I'll sing my songs," he told us, "and they will own their worth."But if I sang them only to those who love the plainThey would not understand them, and I would sing in vain.Oh, better far to sing them to earth's great souls, though few,Than to sing them to the many who ne'er one great thought knew."So he climbed the heights, and on them sang, and those who heard—Earth's few great souls, ah, never they gave one longed-for word,For the mighty thoughts within them filled each one's soul and brain,And few among them listened to the music of his strain.But the other singer sang to the toilers in the vale,The patient, plodding many, who strive, and win, and fail.His songs of faith and gladness, of hope and trust and cheer,Were sweet with strength and comfort, and men were glad to hear.Little this valley singer knew of the good he wrought;He dreamed not of the courage that from his songs was caught—Of the hearts that were made lighter, the hands that stronger grew,As they listened to his singing to the many, not to few.He who sang upon the mountains was forgotten long ago—Not one song of his remembered as the swift years come and go.But the dwellers in the valley sing the other's sweet songs o'er,And as his grave grows greener they love them more and more.
I know two of this earth's singers; one longed to climb and standUpon the heights o'er looking the peaceful lower land,"There where great souls have gathered, the few great souls of earth,I'll sing my songs," he told us, "and they will own their worth.
"But if I sang them only to those who love the plainThey would not understand them, and I would sing in vain.Oh, better far to sing them to earth's great souls, though few,Than to sing them to the many who ne'er one great thought knew."
So he climbed the heights, and on them sang, and those who heard—Earth's few great souls, ah, never they gave one longed-for word,For the mighty thoughts within them filled each one's soul and brain,And few among them listened to the music of his strain.
But the other singer sang to the toilers in the vale,The patient, plodding many, who strive, and win, and fail.His songs of faith and gladness, of hope and trust and cheer,Were sweet with strength and comfort, and men were glad to hear.
Little this valley singer knew of the good he wrought;He dreamed not of the courage that from his songs was caught—Of the hearts that were made lighter, the hands that stronger grew,As they listened to his singing to the many, not to few.
He who sang upon the mountains was forgotten long ago—Not one song of his remembered as the swift years come and go.But the dwellers in the valley sing the other's sweet songs o'er,And as his grave grows greener they love them more and more.