CHAPTER I_A Garden with House Attached

[Illustration: The Hollyhock Bed]

A GARDEN WITH HOUSE ATTACHED

BY SARAH WARNER BROOKS AUTHOR OF "MY FIRE OPAL," "POVERTY KNOB," ETC

"I never had any desire so strong, and so like to covetousness, as that

one which I have had always, that I might be master at least of a small

house, and a large garden."--Abraham Cowley.

BOSTON: RICHARD G. BADGER The Gorham Press 1904

_All rights reserved_

PRINTED AT THE GORHAM PRESS BOSTON, U. S. A.

TO MY SUMMER CHILD

CONTENTS

Page

_CHAPTER ONE_

_A Garden with House Attached_ 5

_CHAPTER TWO_

_The Man with the Hoe_ 10

_CHAPTER THREE_

_The "Lady's" Conservatory_ 14

_CHAPTER FOUR_

_The House Garden, The Selection,

Arrangement, and Culture of House

Plants_ 20

_CHAPTER FIVE_

_At Easter-time_ 35

_CHAPTER SIX_

_Burglar-proof_ 37

_CHAPTER SEVEN_

_Perennials_ 40

_CHAPTER EIGHT_

_Hollyhocks and Violets_ 68

_CHAPTER NINE_

_The Rose_ 74

_CHAPTER TEN_

_Border Bulbs_ 84

_CHAPTER ELEVEN_

_Annuals_ 88

_CHAPTER TWELVE_

_Climbers_ 94

_CHAPTER THIRTEEN_

_Gardens "in Spain"_ 99

_CHAPTER FOURTEEN_

_The Cerebral Processes of Plants_ 108

_CHAPTER FIFTEEN_

_"Auf Wiedersehen"_ 115

A GARDEN WITH HOUSE ATTACHED

CHAPTER I

"_A Garden with House Attached_"

When, by an unlooked-for sequence of events, I became manager of "The

Garden with House Attached" (as an important preliminary) along with

"The Third Son"[1] I went over from Cambridge to take account of its

possibilities. And here be it stated that from the time of his first

trousers "The Third Son" had been my assistant gardener; and in all my

horticultural enterprises, might still be counted in as "aider and

abettor."

"Mother," said this astute young person--on our return from this

inspection--"It is a big job; but there is yet another week of my

vacation. Let us make a beginning."

In shaping the ground plan of this quaint old garden, its long-dead

projectors had shown a capability which came within an ace of genius

itself! Hence, so far as laying out went, there was absolutely no call

for improvement.

All had been so well and effectively outlined, that the landscape

gardener himself must have approved.

The long South walk--leading past the front door of the "Mansion

House"--passing orchard and kitchen garden on its way up the long,

gradual ascent towards the western boundary of the estate, and then

turning a corner, followed the low stone wall hedged with sturdy purple

lilacs (free to all the country round) and making a second turn, skirted

the low northern ledge, where in June the locust hangs its tassels of

perfumed snow, and, in autumn time, the wild barberry perfects its coral

clusters. There, all summer long, the wind blows cool and sweet, and,

resting on low, mossy boulders, you may sight, on the left, Middlesex

Fells, and, across the blue distance, glimpse Tufts College on its

broad, grassy hill, with the Mystic River (if the tide be in) creeping

leisurely between you and that ancient seat of learning.

Following the walk down the lazy declivity, you take a turn with it

beneath two aged pines, with the big lily-of-the-valley patch nestling

in their shade; and (hard by) the well-appointed triangular flower plot,

from time immemorial "bedded out" with "The Lady's" house plants.

Turning on your track, you take a stroll through "The Lover's Walk"--a

little, lilac-embowered pathway--and turning, follow, past the back of

the house, the long, rocky ledge, with its glorious crown of white

lilac trees--their tall tops touching the very ridge-pole of the roof.

There orange toadstools, like fairy parasols, push up through the damp

mosses. There a giant Norway spruce drops its cones and spreads its

brown carpet of needles; and in summer-time you may dream away the hours

upon the cool stone steps and, harkening to an ancient pine singing its

slow song, may

"Eat of the lotus, and dream, and forget."

The rough wagon road on the East takes you from the high road to the big

old-fashioned barn, beneath whose eaves, year after year, the punctual

swallow nests; while, high among the rafters within, immemorial pigeons

rear their toothsome squabs.

The flower-borders of this garden--anciently edged with box (which, of

late, gave up, piece by piece, the long struggles of existence)--had, no

doubt, in their prime, been well worth seeing. Lovely blue-eyed

Periwinkle yet wandered among the tangled shrubs. A persistent Day-lily

and a stunted Flowering Almond still held their own; and in May-time a

single root of double English Violet made shift to perfect a scented

flower or two,--"dim, but sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes."

Thrifty old-time shrubs still flourished in the wide borders. Alicanthus

sent far and wide its fruity odor. Yellow Globe flowers straggled here

and there. Waxberry bushes stoutly thrived, and, in early springtime,

an aged Pyrrhus Japonica put on its blaze of scarlet bloom. Big domes of

Tartarean Honeysuckle--all rosy pink with bloom--yet held their own.

Creamy Syringas made sweet the summer air, and as for Lilacs (white and

purple) they were like "the rats of Bingen," _everywhere_--dominating

the entire grounds!

It was a blessed day for us all when, in the sixteenth century, this

darling Persian shrub was introduced into English gardens. In Persia

they called it the "lilag" (which means simply a flower) and from this

we have our word _Lilac_. Surely, "by no other name"--save by the dear

country one of _laylock_--would it "smell as sweet."

The native West Indian has a pretty superstition in regard to this

familiar flower. He holds that lilac branches, when in blossom, if hung

up around the room, protect from malignant influences. He believes that

the "jumbies," or evil spirits, will not enter a house where there are

lilac blooms. I like to borrow from the pagan this harmless belief; and,

each morning throughout their flowering time, I cut big "bowpots" of

blown lilacs, and setting them about the house, idly fancy that--thus

kept at bay--no evil thing "with spell or charm" may enter the dear

home. And, further to guard it, I have named our place "The Lilacs."

A garden is hardly complete without the restful shade of trees--the

loveliness of interchanging sunshine and shadow.

Therefore was it good to find trees, many and thrifty, hobnobbing

together in our new holding.

A big sturdy hornbeam, with song-birds nesting high among its branches,

shaded the eastern lawn, while close beside the kitchen porch a graceful

rose-acacia reared its slender trunk, and every May-time wove its

garlands of rosy bloom.

All about us grew maple and ash trees. Tall pines to hold the song of

the wind among their boughs. Spruces and Arbor Vitæs (these absolutely

upon their last legs, but still persistent), and, fairest of them all,

two glorious tulip-trees towering upward, like sturdy masts, towards the

blue heaven, flinging to the winds their high leafy boughs, like pale

green pennants, picked out (in blooming time) with shapely miracles of

color.

Here and there an apple or a pear tree had strayed from orchard to lawn;

and in the very midst of things a huge cherry tree rendered its yearly

tale of juicy blackhearts--enough and to spare for neighbors and

robins, and for our own preserve jars. On a bleak northern rise behind

the house, an ancient juniper (like another "Cleopatra's needle") stood

slenderly against the sky--as perfect a pyramid as if shaped by the

gardener's shears, instead of the keen-edged winter wind.