_Perennials_
To begin with the hardy perennials--which, to be effective, should be in
a border of their own. At the outset, this should be made free of
stones, then mellow the earth as far down as two feet. At the bottom put
in about one foot of well-seasoned manure. Now add leaf-mold, a little
peat, a sprinkling of wood ashes, and a top layer of sifted garden loam.
If the soil be clayey, add some fine pure sand, to keep it friable.
Seeds of perennials are naturally slow in germinating--their time of
coming up being a period varying from one week to two months. It may
here be stated that all perennial plants undergo a period of rest. It is
not certain that this "_rest_" is in any sense a recuperation. It is
supposed to be a hereditary trait induced by natural environment--a
means by which the plant resists untoward circumstances of climate. In
the tropics, plants rest during dry seasons, in much the same manner as
during our Northern winters.
Investigations--so far--show that this hereditary trait has not been
entirely overcome by culture. Any attempt of the cultivator to ignore
this resting period is apt to injure the plant, from the fact that any
energy used in abnormal development may be subtracted from subsequent
growth or development.
Before I had taken this "old-time garden" in hand--fashioning new
borders, and freeing the old from encumbering jungles--many plants, both
annual and perennial, had, no doubt, found place in it as before stated.
Groups of blue-eyed periwinkle still held their own among usurping
forces. A discouraged day-lily looked forlornly out of the tangle, where
year by year a courageous double English violet shyly perfected a
blossom or two. Here and there a straggling bush of blush roses reached
out for the June sunshine, and, to my delight, I found--half strangled
among the over-growth--my old acquaintance, a pink flowering almond. The
dear old thing was "on its last legs." We carefully removed it to
kindlier quarters.
Straightway it took heart, and sending up new green shoots, gave us,
that very year, upon "the parent stem" a tuft or two of rosy bloom.
Now, after ten years of high living, it has become an illustrious shrub;
and to sit in the old garden in the May-time while the shadows and
sunshine dance together on the lawn and vernal odors sweeten all the
air, watching the long pink wreaths of flowering almond sway in the
south wind, is to lend one's self to the divine gladness of spring, and
know that simple joy in living, that is the birthright of all God's
creatures in this--His beautiful and perfect--world.
The flowering almond has been often divided, and all about the garden
its rosy wreaths may now be seen.
* * * * *
Here, too, was another old friend, the Yellow Globe flower--a shrub too
large and straggling of habit to find a home in the perennial beds. It
has taken a front seat among the tall shrubs and repeated itself many
times. It has a long period of blooming, and is a most satisfactory
inhabitant of the garden.
And now, as a possible help in the selection and arrangement of the
perennial border, let me tell you what I have learned in regard to those
under my care, in respect to their habit of growth, their treatment, and
characteristics.
* * * * *
The Rose is, as we know, crowned queen of the flowers, and has her own
separate place in the garden; but as the Lily kindly fraternizes with
all her sister-flowers, and is easily Queen among the _social
perennials_, I give her the first place in this catalogue of my border
favorites.
The Lily--we are told--derives its name from the Celtic word
_li_--signifying whiteness and purity. Quick to seize upon symbolic
accessories to their art, the old painters put in the hand of the
angelic messenger who brought to the Virgin Mary tidings of her divine
motherhood, this chaste and exquisite flower. Hence the _Lilium
Candidum_ was known as the "Lily of Annunciation" and as the Madonna
Lily, which last is, I think, the more poetic and beautiful of the two
names.
As the genus _lilium_ embraces about fifty distinct species one may not
aspire to a large show of lilies in a moderate-sized garden.
"It does not seem necessary," says Mr. C. L. Allen (an expert in lily
cultivation) "to improve, or rather, to attempt an improvement on that
which is already perfect, as the lily is, wherever found in its natural
habitat. It seems to us that nature has exhausted her resources in the
perfection of the species, and regards as an interference all efforts of
man to improve her work."
"L. Candidum," says the same authority, "is older than history, as the
first notice made of plants speaks of it as a 'well-known plant.' It is
the loveliest, as well as the oldest, and if we were to have but one
lily Candidum would be the one." I quite agree with this decision. The
Madonna has ever been the lily dearest to my heart. Although its native
habitat is the Levant, the Candidum has adapted itself to our colder
temperature, and is easily perfected in our temperate climate, and in
the hardy garden.
Some twenty years ago this lily was extensively forced for the Easter
market.
In the present decade the Bermuda Lily (L. longiflorum) is almost
exclusively forced for the Easter trade, and popularly known as the
"Easter Lily." Its cultivation for that April festival has now become
one of the established industries of that lovely clime. The bulbs--there
grown in wide flowery fields--are, early in autumn, received by our
florists and directly potted for the Easter harvest.
A lady passing the winter in Bermuda brought from that island some bulbs
of L. longiflorum, which finally coming into the possession of Mr. H. K.
Harris of Philadelphia, he honored the flower by bestowing upon it his
own name, and as L. Harrisii, brought it into prominent notice among our
florists, who now force it for Easter-time. The Bermuda-grown bulbs are
preferred by them to the Dutch-grown ones, as they are earlier ripened
and come into bloom quicker.
For myself I prefer the Madonna, with its more open flower, to the
trumpet-like Bermuda. It is, too, an old acquaintance, has a more
delicate odor, and hangs its sprays more gracefully. The Bermuda needs
much coaxing to live through our bleak Northern winters, but the
Candidum is absolutely hardy.
The Madonna holds to her corner with the tenacity of a family cat--she
is a long time settling herself in a "strange garret."
Mine had undergone the vicissitude of three moving days before settling
in their present quarters. I distributed them well through my sunniest
border. Their next neighbors were some elderly Bee Larkspurs. The first
and second year the lovely blue Delphiniums did most of the blooming.
After that the Lilies and Larkspurs punctually celebrated together the
"great and glorious Fourth"--the tall Madonnas (some years in throngs of
two hundred) leading the fair procession--the Larkspurs like swarms of
blue butterflies flitting about among the snow of the lilies. Then, for
a time, every friend in the neighborhood had a dainty spray of summer
lilies for decorative uses. Finally, it befell that the coarser
perennials elbowed the lilies too closely. They grew chary of bloom, and
sometimes the bulbs quite gave up the struggle for existence. Then it
was that, calling in the aid of "The Man with the Hoe," I made for my
"Queen Lilies" a new home, with better drainage.
The Madonna after her July flowering takes a rest. Her favorite moving
day is about the last of July.
I have not an extensive knowledge of lily-culture, having but few
varieties of this lovely plant in my garden.
All, excepting the Japanese (Lilium auratum) take kindly to my borders,
and "increase an hundred fold." My list includes a few plants of the
Japanese found here in the purlieus of the old "burglar barricade." I am
indebted to Mrs. Ely for this information in regard to L. auratum: "As
soon as planted in this country a microbe disease attacks the bulb and
they gradually disappear under its ravages." This, no doubt, accounts
for the unhealthy appearance of my few L. auratums, their scant tale of
blossoms, and their sad tendency, year by year, to "grow beautifully
less." America, after all, is but the step-mother of this charming
flower, and Nature somewhat repudiates this much calumniated tie.
In English gardens they are said to thrive well, which may, in part, be
due to better climatic conditions.
In my borders the _Candidum_ takes the front seat. Here and there I make
place for L. Tigrinum (the well-known tiger-lily). In shady places sits
the Day Lily. I have a single plant of the tall Nankin-colored Lily,
variously named (Lilium Excelsum, Testacum, Isabellinum). The stalk is
sometimes nearly five feet high, and produces from three to twelve
reflex flowers of a dainty Nankin hue--delicately shaded and fragrant.
In flowering it immediately follows the Madonna. The Excelsum is not of
Japanese origin. How, when, or where it was born is yet unknown.
It is said to be easy of culture, and this season I intend to remove
mine to a less crowded situation, as I should long ago have done, but
for dread of taking chances with the one plant.
There may be a garden where Nankin Lilies are "thick as blackberries,"
but it has been my fortune to see but one plant, and I have found that
the flower is a stranger to all who have met it in my border.
The Nankin Lily came from our Cambridge garden, and presumably was
originally grown in the Harvard Botanic Garden. I have, too, the
old-fashioned, sweet-scented, early-blooming Yellow Lily. I have never
known it by its Latin name, but believe it to be Hansoni--a Japanese
lily, as it answers in every particular to the description of that
plant.
Were the flower more lasting it would be more desirable. Its bloom,
which comes in clusters, has, singly, but the short life of a day.
With delight I found this dear lily of my far-away childhood in one of
these old-time borders.
It is perfectly hardy, and wonderfully prolific in bulbs. My garden has
now scant room for all its Yellow Lilies, and _this_ after friends and
neighbors have kindly relieved me of some of this "embarrassment of
riches."
The Lilies-of-the-valley must be kept to their own beds, where they
double and treble themselves incontinently. Last, but not of least place
in my heart, comes that flower thus charmingly vended by "Perdita"--in
"Winter's Tale"--
"Lilies of all kinds--the Flower de Luce being one."
The familiar old-time Flower de Luce, a vigorous clump of which I found
in the "Attached Garden" (growing along with the Yellow Lily and the
"live-forever" plants), is with us a native product, and absolutely
hardy. The smaller varieties grow wild in swamp and meadow, and are, I
think, invariably, blue as the noon-day heaven. These are sometimes
known as "Flags." The cultivated hardy Irises are of several colors.
Mine is a lively blue, shading off to bluish white. In these days we
grow in our gardens many lovely foreign Irises--some of them so
beautiful that they have been called "the connecting link between the
Lilies and the Orchids." The flower of the Spanish Iris is very lovely
and of various colors, quite fragrant, and appears in June. It is
classed by Dutch bulb growers as perfectly hardy, but in our trying
climate needs to be protected by a slight winter covering.
The (so named) English Iris is a native of the Pyrenees, but, as we are
told, has been common in English gardens since 1571. The flowers are of
varied color--blue, white, lavender, crimson, and yellow.
_L. Germanica_, or German Iris, is one of the most valuable of the
early-flowering sorts for the herbaceous border. This Iris is
bulbous-rooted, easily propagated, and (though classed as hardy) is
greatly benefited by a light winter covering of leaves. In color the
flowers are blue, bright yellow, purple, of all shades, and white.
Japanese Iris (I. Kæmpferi) is with us fully acclimated, a gross feeder,
and a strong grower, and an abundant bloomer. Its flowers are from six
to ten inches in diameter, in various shades of color--pure white, dark
purple, porcelain blue, maroon, violet, plum, and so on--all with very
distinct pencilings and marblings, and exquisitely beautiful. I have no
Japanese Irises in my garden, but a kind neighbor sends me superb
cut-blooms from his perfect Iris border. Mr. Allen says that the
well-cultivated seedling of Japan Iris "has no superior in the floral
world."
Iris is named from Iris, the goddess of the rainbow--in classic
mythology the swift-footed Olympian messenger.
The root of the Florentine Iris is fragrant. It has a charming
violet-like odor, and is the well-known sweet Orris root (the name
corrupted from Iris) of commerce.
In Shakespeare's day the Iris and the Daffodil were both included among
the lilies. Some species of Iris have from early times been called
_Fleur de lis_, or in English, Flower de luce. The Fleur de lis adopted
by Louis the VIIth of France as the emblem for his shield during the
Crusades was, probably, the White Iris. Older monarchies in Eastern
countries, considering the Iris an emblem of power, used it--in a
conventionalized form--as an emblem, on their scepters, and in this form
the manufacturer still patterns it on table-linen.
In the mysterious representations of antique Egypt the Iris was placed
on the brow of the Sphinx. Altogether considered it is a most desirable
ornament of the garden, and a flower "of mark and likelihood."
It is recorded in the Greek legends that the physician Pæon cured Pluto
of a wound with the common Peony; hence it is called after him in almost
every country in Europe.
The ancient Greeks are said to have held the plant in high repute,
believing it to be of divine origin, and an emanation from the moon.
Pagan superstitions die hard, and in our Christian civilization still
hold their own among the ignorant masses.
Mrs. Pratt tells us that in England "the lower classes turn beads of the
Peony root, which form necklaces for their children, and are supposed to
aid dentition, and prevent convulsions."
We learn from her that at the end of the 16th century the double red
Peony--at that time introduced into Antwerp from Switzerland--was too
expensive a flower for any but the rich man's garden, a single plant
selling for twelve pounds! "The Mongols," she tells us, "use the seed of
the wild Peony in tea, and flavor their broth with its roots."
Among ourselves no garden is complete without this lovely hardy
perennial.
From my childhood the big red Peony--coming in late May-time--has been,
to my mind, the very embodiment of Spring! Of all the Peonies this
flower of my early love is most precious--beloved less for its dear
blowsy self than for its sweet associations--memories of by-gone springs
when life and joy went hand in hand, and grass was not greening on the
graves of my dead.
I have in my borders but four colors of this fine flower--red, white,
pink, and pink with white center--this last a single variety, and an
indefatigable bloomer. The red, white, and rose pink are all the
doublest of their kind, and the two latter are deliriously odorous. Of
late, Peonies of many colors are to be had from the seedsman--pink,
purple, and salmon-colored varieties of exquisite form and color.
The Peony is greatly disquieted by removal, and, though sturdily
tenacious of life, refuses for a year or two after transplanting, to "do
its level best." It is increased by division of tubers, or may be
propagated by seed. The division and replanting should be done in
October, and one should see that there is, at least, one eye on each
tuber.
The Peony may be commended to the perennial grower, not only as a lovely
flower, but as a plant to "tie to." It never gets winter-killed,
blossoms punctually, and has no pernickity notions in regard to
situation. It will grow in any soil, but to do its best requires to be
well fed and to have the loam about it kept loose and friable, the same
as for the rose.
* * * * *
The Foxglove (Digitalis) beautifully repays one's care. Unhappily it has
a tendency to succumb to the harshness of our climate, and often gets
winter-killed; surviving this ordeal, it is--with its charming spikes of
white, purple, and pinkish lilac bloom--the pride of the garden. Four
years ago I had, in the western end of a southward-facing border, a
superb clump of this lovely biennial. Many times a day I went to look at
these exquisite flowers. As I stood before them in admiration a friend
often joined me, and while we stood admiring them, I thought of the
Persian flower-worship--an account of which I had come across in my
reading and stored in my collection of "Useful Clippings." Here it is. I
cannot now recall the name of its author:
"A Persian saunters into a garden and stands and meditates on each
flower before him, as in a half vision.
"When the vision is fulfilled, and the ideal flower sought for found, he
spreads his mat and sits before it until the setting of the sun, then
folding his mat he goes home.
"The next night he returns with friends--in ever-increasing troops, and
they sit before it playing the lute, or guitar, and then all together
join in prayer.
"After prayer they still sit before it sipping sherbet and chatting late
in the moonlight, and so again every evening until the flower dies."
This oriental vein of plant and flower-worship seems to have been found
in all Persians--even in royalty itself! It is related of Xerxes the
Great that he lost a battle by delaying a whole day with his army under
the shade of a gigantic plane tree, which so charmed him that he caused
it to be adorned with a golden circlet.
But, to return to the Foxgloves--five or six years ago one in my border
made a new departure. It "sported"!
It should perhaps be explained that to _sport_ is to produce a flower,
or a shoot, of abnormal growth. Long ago I read a most interesting paper
"On Sports."
I do not remember the name of its writer, nor of the English magazine in
which I found it, and after an exhaustive search in our town library
have not been able to find a second paper on the subject, or to obtain
further information in regard to this curious tendency from any
botanist.
I remember that the English article stated that this tendency in plant
or shrub to ignore Nature and take things into its own hands, was
sometimes utilized by the horticulturist as an opportunity to propagate
from the "Sport" a new variety of the normal plant, or shrub. Here then
was my chance! From the seed of this enterprising _digitalis_ (which
bore at its apex a flower almost as flat as a daisy) I would develop a
new variety--a radiate Foxglove.
I confided my ambition to a friend who, although himself a teacher of
botany, had never included in his research the subject of "Sports." This
botanical expert took great interest in my "Sport"--watching it with me
from day to day.
Alas, vain were my hopes of giving to the world a new flower!
The radiate Foxglove declined the honor of reproduction; dropping its
mottled petals, and slowly shrinking away without forming a seed pod!
A queer characteristic of the "Sport" was thus asserted in the English
article before mentioned: "When a plant _sports_, all plants of its
kind, wherever growing, also _sport_." Now one may admit the fact of a
single plant having (as it were) flown in the face of Mother Nature, but
when it comes to the whole family--"all the aunts and cousins," from Dan
to Beersheba, joining in the frolic, one can but wonder and doubt the
Munchausen-like statement.
Calling that summer on a Cambridge friend (a member of our Plant Club,
whose flower-garden is a miracle of beauty):
"One of my Foxgloves has sported," I proudly boasted. "So has one of
_mine_," she said, "and it is the first _sport_ I have ever seen."
So the magazine statement was, after all, believable! Yes, away across
the Atlantic, in English gardens, the Foxglove--obedient to this
marvelous natural impulse of its being--was trying its hand at a radiate
flower! I find it well that my _sport_ did not germinate, since the
regularly formed Foxglove suits the tall spike "to a T," and is far
lovelier than any freak of a flower could be.
Since making a record of my Foxglove _sport_ I have learned that this
flower often produces at the tip of its blossom stalk an abortive
radiate flower. I wonder if the Foxglove did not originally start out as
a radiate, and if this freak is not a wild tendency of the plant to
escape that evoluted form (which is its civilization) and lapse into its
primitive barbarism?
The Foxglove comes in bloom late in June and continues flowering about
four weeks.
Though classed as a biennial, it sometimes lingers on through a third
summer, and continues flowering.
It is named from its finger-shaped corolla. The dried leaf of _Digitalis
Purpurea_ is a specific for disturbance of circulation, and is used in
heart disease.
Its colors are pure white, white mottled with pencil-color, purple,
lavender, from the palest to the deepest shades--some almost pink--all
curiously mottled on the inside of the flower, which grows in tall
spikes.
Sow Foxgloves in seed bed about last of April, and, late in September,
transplant to their permanent place. They will bloom the following year.
Both Foxgloves and Canterbury Bells sow themselves profusely if stalk is
left to perfect its seeds.
The self-sown plants are said to be stronger than the hand-sown ones,
and may be transplanted for the next year's blooming.
CANTERBURY BELLS, _Campanula medium_
It has been suggested that "the name of Canterbury Bells may have been
given to the giant species of Campanula from its resemblance to the
hand-bells which were placed on poles, and rung by pilgrims while
proceeding to the shrine of Thomas à Becket."
Chaucer, in his "Canterbury Tales," has described in detail these
processions to the tomb of the "blisful martir."
The Canterbury Bell is, like the Foxglove, a biennial, and may be sown
in the seed bed at the same time, or the self-sown plants may be used.
It needs winter protection (not too heavy), for it is easily
winter-killed.
I have, at times, had in my garden most lovely Campanulas--both double,
single, and "cup and saucers." The most beautiful variety is the single.
In color mine were white, purple, and lavender, of many shades, but the
pride of my heart was a rose-pink Canterbury Bell.
"Beautiful as a dream!" said the garden visitor, moved to admiration at
the sight of these pink beauties.
Lovely as they are, Canterbury Bells have not the grace to die nicely.
Their dead blossoms cling, withered and unsightly, to the parent stem,
and unless one has time and patience to go among the plants daily and
remove the dead bells it is, for this reason, well to cultivate them in
inconspicuous beds apart by themselves.
Another most desirable plant for the perennial border is Phlox (from the
Greek _flame_). Time was when we had but the white and purple, the
latter tending to that odious color magenta, which some one has happily
said is "a color that has no right to be." The above varieties I found
in the old border, growing amicably together. It is not without touches
of remorse that I deliberately uproot anything that bears the name of
flower, but, since I could remember, there has been a deadly feud
between purple Phlox and myself. I keep a single root for old-time sake,
which it gives me a megrim to look at. The white has been transplanted
and has grown apace, until there are oceans of it in my borders.
I have, too, some of the fine varieties of "Phlox Drummondi." One of
them, a deep salmon red, with a dark eye, is literally a bit of
"_flame_." There are pinks with maroon-colored eyes, whites with pinkish
eyes, pure white, lilac shaded with carmine, and light salmon with
wine-colored eyes. I love best the pure white and dark salmon pink, but
scarce could spare any of these from my color-scheme. The Phlox is the
hardiest of herbaceous perennials, easily propagated by division, or
from seed. With me, the seed-grown Phloxes have not come true in color.
It is, I think, wisest to select plants in flowering time among
varieties in a florist's collection, and order them at once. They are so
tough that any moving day suits them, and one can scarce have too many,
as they begin blooming in early August, when the border is somewhat
forlorn, and last until frost.
* * * * *
Day-lily is the common name of a species of the Asphodelus. The ancients
planted Asphodels near graves to supply the manes of their dead with
nourishment. The poets, probably taking their cue from this, have
celebrated the Asphodel in song as the flower of the immortals. I have
thought that the bloom of the Day-lily, exquisite in form and odor,
needs but the added charm of immortality to fit it for
"Angel gardens,"
but alas, its only defect is its evanescence--a single day bounds its
life on this planet.
Its foliage is very ornamental, and for grouping with perennials it is a
plant greatly to be desired. It is easily propagated. From one sickly
root found in the old garden I have grown for my own garden Day-lilies
ad infinitum, and easily spared many for those of my neighbors. It needs
to be well fed, and will accept any respectable situation, and, though
doing well in the sun, is most eligible for shady spots where other
plants refuse to grow.
* * * * *
The Sweet-William--Dianthus--is hardy enough and perennial enough,
profuse of bloom, and gay in color, yet nevertheless from the show
places of my garden I have banished it "for good and all," because of
its tendency to sprawl about the borders after flowering time, wan and
withered, and making faces at the freshly-gowned Foxgloves and
Canterbury Bells, then thronging the borders.
The Sweet-William has quietly taken a back seat, and, owing me no
grudge, contentedly blooms on, as if to "blush unseen" were its special
province.
[Illustration: The Man with the Hoe]
With those tough little members of the Dianthus family, China Pinks, I
have been most successful. It is a perennial, but too low-growing to
make any marked show among the taller flowers. It is prettily varied in
color, but lacks the odor of the Clove Pink. It is a profuse bloomer,
and makes a desirable pot-plant for the window garden.
"The flower of the family" is the old Clove Pink, to which the parentage
of our Carnation is by some accorded. The Elizabethan poet Drayton calls
these sweet-smelling flowers "Cloves of Paradise," and Lawson--at the
close of the sixteenth century--thus extols it: "Of all the flowers save
the damask rose they are the most pleasant to sight and smell." "Their
use," continues he, "is much in ornament, and comforting the spirits by
the sense of smelling."
A syrup made of Clove Pinks (with the probable addition of some
stimulant) and called by our English forbears "Sops-in-wine," because of
its use in giving flavor to the festive cup, gave to this flower its
rather material appellation of Sops-in-wine. Thus sings Spenser:
"Bring Carnations and Sops-in-wine
Worn of paramours" (lovers--wooers).
Bacon informs us that "Sops-in-wine, quantity for quantity, inebriate
more than wine itself."
A precious Clove Pink of Botanic Garden origin, for a time bloomed in my
border. It has, long since, died of old age.
* * * * *
Shakespeare says in Othello:
"Not poppy, nor mandragora,
Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world
Shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep
Which thou had'st yesterday."
Keats and many others have immortalized it in their verse.
Burns thus points a moral with the flower:
"Pleasures are like poppies spread,
You seize the flower, its bloom is shed."
The Papaver family has wrought much ill in its day. It is from P.
_somniferum_, one of its members, that the opium of commerce is
collected. It is the milky juice of the capsule, or of any other part of
the plant which exudes from incisions in the cortical part. This juice,
scraped off, is worked in the sun's heat till it is of a consistency to
form cakes.
The Oriental and Iceland Poppy are both perennial. Although like the
Irishman, "not born in their own native country," they take kindly to
our soil. Ten years ago I carefully sowed some seed of Oriental Poppy.
Two of them consented to germinate, and now, from this small beginning,
I have in my garden Orientals galore. Last spring these beauties kept my
borders all aflame with their splendor. I counted, in a single border,
eighty-five buds and blooms, and felt well-repaid for their careful
nurture. Nevertheless, Oriental Poppies raised from seed mean much
patient care, and many failures, but once thoroughly established they
are "real estate," and have a kindly way of sowing themselves. As the
Poppy, with its long "_tap_ root," is most impatient of removal, this
habit especially commends them to the grower.
The Iceland Poppy, though far less considerable in size, is very hardy,
and with its dainty bloom of lemon, orange, red, and white, makes a
pretty show in a bed by itself; and the Iceland is one of the few
poppies available for one's vases.
Mrs. Thaxter, in the beautiful account of her Isle of Shoals gardening,
tells us that by cutting poppies in the dew of the morning, with the
right hand, and plumping them straight into water with the left, she had
great success with them as cut flowers.
Following her method--unsuccessfully--I am forced to believe that the
long and beautiful survival of her cut poppies depended largely on the
crisp cool air of her Island home. Here the summer is many degrees
hotter, and has far less moisture in its air, and, though morning after
morning, tempted by their exquisite shades of color, I gather Shirley
Poppies for the house, and like the Persian, fall down and worship them;
in their slender vases they scarce outlive the day.
A friend making a pilgrimage to Stratford-on-Avon brought me some seed
supposedly from Anne Hathaway's garden.
I sowed Madame Shakespeare's poppies with reverent care, but these
English-born seeds patriotically refused to quicken in alien soil. No
matter! they may have been but half-wild wind-sown things, and with my
Shirleys, Icelands, and glorious Orientals, I can spare them.
With the ancient Greeks, the poppy with its crowded capsules was an
emblem of fertility. Cybele, the mother of the gods, wears a crown of
poppies.
In Roman gardens Somnus, the god of slumber, was anciently figured as
reclining on a mass of snowy poppies, with a posy of these emblems of
oblivion in his motionless hand.
Mexican Indians are pictured as returning home after a day of toil,
dancing and singing to the music of a guitar, and crowned with wreaths
of this "forgetful flower."
In the shops of Constantinople poppy juice mixed with rich fruit syrups
is sold as a sweetmeat, or in the form of small lozenges on which are
stamped "_Mash Allah_" (the work of God). Tartar couriers, traveling
immense distances, and with marvelous speed and endurance, often, it is
said, take no other nourishment than the famous "Mash Allah" of the
Turks, in which the juice of hemp is mingled with that of the poppy.
* * * * *
The Columbine (Aquilegia) is a desirable plant for the border. Mine came
from choice seed sent the Plant Club from Mr. Childs, a Philadelphia
florist. They soon germinated, but were two years coming to bloom.
There are now many beautiful colors to be had. I have but the yellow and
white, the purple and white, and pure yellows.
Once well-established, Columbines come to stay, and are most lovely! the
garden plants flowering from the middle of May until late in June, and
having the same graceful carriage of the wild variety, with flowers
double their size, and with elegant long "spurs."
Its name is from the Latin Columbinas (dove-like) so called from the
beak-like spurs of its flowers.
* * * * *
In my mention of early-blooming perennials I had forgotten the Crown
Imperial. It is a resident of most old gardens, and has the distinction
of remote antiquity. Mention is made of it in an Herbal of 1596 for its
"stately beautifulness," and the herbalist accords it a "first place in
the _Garden_ of _Delight_."
I have but a single plant of this early flower, which punctually leads
off in the spring procession along with its neighbor, the red peony.
The Eupatorium is not, I think, extensively cultivated in the garden. It
is one of the hardiest of the later perennials. Mine was raised from
seed. Having but one clump of it, I am always meaning to sow and to
raise more plants of this dainty white flower, which comes with the
Phloxes at the most flowerless time of the borders, but (to borrow an
excuse from my slack old colored woman-of-all-work) "I haint jus' fetch
roun' to it."
I find the Eupatorium's name in my seed catalogue. It is not, there,
classed with the hardy perennials. It grows high enough to make a fair
show among the border plants.
As will be seen, I have not in my borders a large assortment of
perennials. My purse forbids a costly collection, and I think it well to
undertake no more plants than can be well cared for in my hands, when
much extra help cannot be afforded.
To my list let me add a few low-growing beauties.
The Italian peasant twines wreaths of the Periwinkle around the head of
the departed infant or young maiden, and calls it _Fler di morte_
(Death's Flower). Because of the laurel-like tint and texture of its
glossy leaves the Greek has termed it _Daphnoides_.
In olden times it was highly valued for its medicinal virtues. Lord
Bacon tells us that, in _his_ day, bands of green Periwinkle were bound
about the limbs to prevent cramps. By Americans it is often miscalled
_Myrtle_. It carpets finely the bare spaces in borders, especially the
shady ones, where other perennials will not thrive.
The Periwinkle is not an "up-to-date" plant. The seedsman of today gives
it no place in his catalogue. I have several thrifty clumps of this
pretty blue-eyed darling, and delight greatly in its bloom and its
glossy trailing foliage.
Periwinkle is one of the oldest flowers of the English garden. Chaucer
in describing a garden of the olden time speaks of it as "Fresh
Periwinkle, rich of hue," and places it on the same plane with the rose
and violet.
* * * * *
The Forget-me-not is another low-growing perennial which may prettily
carpet the bare spots between the taller occupants of the border.
We have all associated the name of this charming little flower with the
story of the chivalrous knight who wandered beside a stream with the
lady of his love. In the attempt to procure for her some of its
much-desired flowers growing on the opposite shore he was borne away by
the current while returning to her side with the gathered blossoms, and,
making a last effort, threw them on the margin of the engulfing flood,
and crying "Forget-me-not," sank beneath the waters.
Miss Strickland gives a less romantic but more probable narrative of the
origin of the name. The exiled Henry of Lancaster, whose fortunes are
related by Shakespeare in "King John," according to this writer, first
gave to the Forget-me-not its emblematic meaning by writing it on his
collar with the initial letter of his _mot_, or watchword, and on his
restoration from banishment continued this heraldic use of the flower,
adopted in his homesickness, even when raised to the fatal eminence of a
king.
* * * * *
Some of the showiest of the annuals may be, in June, transplanted from
the seed beds to brighten the borders through August and September, as
the Yellow Marigolds, the Zinnias, the Nicotianas, the Cosmos, and the
seedling Single Dahlias, which will bloom the first year, and if that
dictum of Linnæus ("a double flower is a vegetable monster") may be
accepted, are the beauties of the family. They are certainly more lovely
for one's vases than the double Dahlias, and the white ones are, as a
table decoration, scarce less charming than the white Cosmos.
The Dahlia is named after Andrew Dahl, a Swedish botanist, and is a
native of Mexico and Central America.
It shows a natural disposition to _sport_ from its original form
(single).
Florists directed their attention to raising new forms of this flower.
First attempts finally resulted in semi-double varieties, and early in
the 18th century M. Doukelan, botanic gardener at Louvain, produced from
seed three perfectly double plants. These are said to be the very first
double Dahlia plants ever produced. The Dahlia is decidedly progressive.
Its up-to-date achievement is the elegant Cactus variety. I sowed, this
year, some seeds of double Dahlia. It is now October and a few of them
(some very beautiful and quite Cactus-like) are in bloom.
* * * * *
Once upon a time there were in this garden thrifty borders of Box. These
the dear Lady tried hard to keep intact.
Every spring the failing rows were reset with small plants from the
ancient stock, and were, first and last, the plague and despair of "the
man's" busy life. At first I made the same futile attempt to restore the
Box bordering. Now I have given up this idea of repairing the withered
sections, but some six or eight large plants still in their beautiful
perfection delight my heart. Some there are who object to the odor of
Box, to others it is very pleasant and grateful. I am very fond of it,
partly, I suppose, from its association with some much-admired gardens
that I knew in childhood.
Common Box has but two varieties, one of which is the Dwarf Box, used as
an edging for flower-beds--the other (Tree Box) is described as of
surprising thickness, and as tall as the beech tree. This tree is of
great antiquity. It is mentioned in the Bible, with the fir tree and the
pine, as affording wood for the temple of King Solomon. The wood of the
Box tree is very valuable and durable. Virgil has thus sung its virtues:
"Smooth-grained and proper for the turner's trade,
Which curious hands may carve, and steel invade."
Mrs. Pratt tells us that "in the North of England the old custom of each
mourner carrying a sprig of Box at a funeral and throwing it in the
grave still lingers."
Wordsworth thus baldly refers to this practice, in his verse--
"Fresh sprigs of boxwood, not six months before,
Filled the funeral basin at Timothy's door."
In Turkey, the widow, who goes weekly to pray at the tomb of her
husband, plants a sprig of Box at the head of the grave.