“THE SEASON” WINDOW-BOX
“The summer approaching with richness--
And the infinite separate houses.”
The spring months over, and our early blossom faded, how joyfully one
hails the crowd of summer flowers, that appear as if by magic, begging
us to buy them. Market-carts and barrows filled with “bedders” meet
us at every turn, and their wafted sweetness in square and street is
intoxicating. We must clutch these old joys and hold them. How now
about the window-box?
To be practical, two courses are open to us. Bulbs are not at all fond
of being moved; they like to rest in peace while their grass grows
long and straggly, to feed the bulblets underground; but this does not
look pretty, so if we have any place where we can store the spring
flower-box, we may remove it bodily, and leave the rest to Nature. If
not, we had much better clear it all out ruthlessly, and start afresh.
One mistake that should be guarded against is that of filling the
summer window-box too soon. People are in such a hurry; they want to
smarten up their houses with growing summer flowers, even before the
end of May. To put it on the lowest ground, this is waste of money;
but worse, it is cruelty. We might as well stand our darling occupants
of the warm nursery outside their open windows, with nothing on but
pinafores! All these summer flowers have been grown in a hot place.
At all times it is well to know the previous history of each plant we
buy, and something of its pedigree. Plants have their pasts as well as
people, and they should be considered. We want those that have been
brought up hardily, not forced.
In early summer the multitude of floral beauties before us to choose
from is bewildering, yet nearly every one fixes his affections on the
same flowers year by year, and no doubt will continue to do so, for
they never fail to please. London would not be itself without its
windows framed with clusters of white Marguerites and bright Geraniums
(generally pink), with a neat edging of Lobelia. There will be slight
variations in the kind and colour of the flowers, and sometimes
trailing Ivy-leafed Geraniums will add a note of grace. For a lovely
pink nothing surpasses the Geraniums “Christine Nielson” or “Olive
Carr.” But variety is the spice of life. Why cannot some of us, for a
change, choose white Geraniums--“Queen of Whites,” for instance--and
fill the spaces in between with Petunias, single and double? Petunias
are now brought to the greatest perfection, and may be had in splendid
colours, shading from palest pink to the deepest crimson, and the
fringed blossoms are exquisite. The freedom of their growth is a
welcome set-off to the stately deportment of Geranium “Queens.” And we
might have yellow Marguerites, with Marigolds and Nasturtiums deepening
to brown and orange, Fuchsias with Heliotrope (only we must keep the
Heliotrope out of a draught), or gold and spotted Calceolarias mingled
with white Daisies. But is it of any use to advise Calceolarias? They
are so unpopular nowadays, though some of them are not so bad, even if
they do remind a little of the gaping, wide-mouthed toad. One would
gladly see more Musk used; it is delicious billowing over pots of dark
red Roses. Some say Carnations do well in window-boxes. We have never
tried them. They are capricious always and anywhere.
Walking or driving about the streets and squares of the West End
of London on a June day, when all the window-boxes are at their
gayest, it is amusing to notice how some localities favour certain
flowers. At Queen’s Gate for several seasons past there has been what
shopkeepers call “a great feeling” for white Marguerites and Genista.
Here, again, I use shopkeeper language. “Genista” is London shop for
the almond-scented, yellow-flowered Citisus which, though really a
conservatory plant, deigns to brighten the window-boxes of London
façades, reminding delightfully of the golden gorse-blossoms that
have the same sweet smell, and are blooming at the same moment about
the heaths and waste-lands of the country. Genista _must_ have the
sunny side of the street; we should bear that in mind. Some Clubs,
too, adopt certain flowers and colours, remaining very constant to
their specialities. It would be interesting to reckon up the number
of Daisies that bud and blow in town during the “season.” Never need
Londoners quit the region of bricks and mortar to count the “daisies
of the dappled field;” there are nearly as many of them to be seen
in town. The Daisy is such a human flower. Nettles, they say, are
never met with but near the haunts of man, and we are really very
much obliged to them, for boiled Nettle is nearly as good as Spinach,
and Daisies are just as friendly. I have seen them on the golf-links
of Norfolk in chill December, their fringed and yellow eyes gazing
benevolently at the golfers. Wordsworth knew all about the Daisy.
“Methinks that there abides in thee
Some concord with humanity
Given to no other flower I see
The forest through.”
[Illustration: OVERLOOKING THE TOWN]
One very charming scheme that has been adopted with great success
for the sunny side of the street is to have the whole house painted
white, and to fill every box and balcony with the lovely tendrils
of _Asparagus Sprengeri_, and nothing else. This ripples over most
luxuriantly; to look at it makes one feel cool on the hottest day.
After two hours’ eye-strain at the Royal Academy no sight could be more
refreshing. The Sprengeri is often used for pendant baskets, which it
furnishes to perfection.
However handsome may be the receptacle for our flowers, no arrangement
is really so pretty as that which gives them trailing blossoms and
greenery to hang and cluster over the hard edge. Campanulas are always
ready to do this gracious task, and can be had either in pink or white
to suit every requirement.
If we live in a flat that has a good many windows and aspects, we
may enjoy a great number of different growing plants. Before the
kitchen-window I should have a box for parsley and a herb or two. They
make for grace as well as use. Some herbs grow very prettily, and their
aromatic, refreshing scent (so unaccustomed in a town drawing-room)
will please more than that of the costliest exotic. I have sometimes
amused myself by making a nosegay out of nothing but herbs. In a
sick-room it is priceless. Wormwood--the herb that in France is used
for making absinthe--is a very graceful grower, of pale grey green not
unlike Southernwood or Old-Man, but finer, and it has a more delicate
and subtle scent. Another herb, Sweet Cicely, is often mistaken for a
fern, though it is softer and bears flowers. Mint, Balm, Sage, and Rue
make a pleasing bunch, and these herbs will grow anywhere; they are not
afraid of London smoke. Parsley is more difficult to manage, but is
just as tricky in the garden as in the box. It is perhaps as well to
buy this with our cabbages and cauliflowers. Some of the other herbs
are really not procurable in towns, however gladly we would pay their
price, so it is worth while trying to grow them for ourselves, and it
can be done.
All town gardeners must make up their mind to contend with
difficulties. The worst of them are smoke and smuts. Smoke, however, is
not nearly so bad in summer as in winter, nor are there then so many
flying children of the soot. We must wash and sponge and syringe, and
we must use soft water. Oh, the magic of soft water in the plant-world!
but how often the dry and panting flowers sigh for it in vain. We
forget or omit to store the water heaven sends us, though nothing is
simpler to arrange than a pipe leading from the gutter on the roof
down to the ground. Instead of feeding our plants with rain-water
we turn the nearest tap, and torment them with hard water from the
main. This is what Londoners do, anyway; I hope it is not the same in
other towns. On the whole, growing plants give very little trouble,
and make slight demands upon our time, but, like children, they are
ruined by alternations of petting and neglect; the little care we give
them must be constant, and, as usual, experience is the best teacher.
“The watched pot never boils,” they say, and picnic experiences have
taught us to believe the proverb; but it does not apply to plants and
flowers, which always do better for being noticed. It has come to be a
family fiction, in which we more than half believe, that flowers will
not thrive unless they are watched. Looking at them seems to make them
grow, which of course is only another way of saying that they pay for
close attention, and the stitch in time that saves.
At Exeter, already one of the most beautifully kept of English towns,
the window-box bids fair to become a striking feature. An enthusiast
in horticulture, anxious to improve its southern entrance, is offering
prizes for the best window-sill gardening in that locality. Three
months are allowed for exhibition, and consolation prizes give a chance
to all. The idea is a good one, and almost sure to be imitated in
other places. I have often wished that every nursery-window in London
might have its window-box for simple flowers. A child’s delight in the
first shoot above the ground is a pretty thing to see, and after that
there is the miracle of the bud and bloom. How much more meaning has
the pretty “Seed Song” to a town child who has himself with his own
hands sowed the little seedlets and watched the wonder of their birth
in his very own window-box! I borrow two half verses of it, for the
benefit of those to whom it is unfamiliar.
“Little brown seed, oh! little brown brother,
Are you awake in the dark?
Here we lie cosily, close to each other:--
Hark to the song of the lark!
“Little brown seed, oh! little brown brother,
What kind of flower will you be?
I’ll be a Poppy--all white like my mother.
_Do_ be a Poppy like me.”