[Illustration: _In the Garden_]
[Illustration]
AN ISLAND GARDEN
BY CELIA THAXTER
WITH PICTURES AND
ILLUMINATIONS BY
CHILDE HASSAM
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN & CO.
The Riverside Press, Cambridge
MDCCCXCV
Copyright, 1894,
BY HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO.
_All rights reserved._
_The Riverside Press, Cambridge, Mass., U. S. A._
Electrotyped and Printed by H. O. Houghton & Company.
TO
MRS. MARY HEMENWAY
“WHOSE LARGENESS OF HEART IS EVEN AS THE
SAND ON THE SEASHORE”
THIS VOLUME
IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
At the Isles of Shoals, among the ledges of the largest island,
Appledore, lies the small garden which in the following pages I have
endeavored to describe. Ever since I could remember anything, flowers
have been like dear friends to me, comforters, inspirers, powers to
uplift and to cheer. A lonely child, living on the lighthouse island
ten miles away from the mainland, every blade of grass that sprang out
of the ground, every humblest weed, was precious in my sight, and I
began a little garden when not more than five years old. From this,
year after year, the larger one, which has given so much pleasure
to so many people, has grown. The first small bed at the lighthouse
island contained only Marigolds, pot Marigolds, fire-colored blossoms
which were the joy of my heart and the delight of my eyes. This scrap
of garden, literally not more than a yard square, with its barbaric
splendors of color, I worshiped like any Parsee. When I planted the
dry, brown seeds I noticed how they were shaped, like crescents, with a
fine line of ornamental dots, a “beading” along the whole length of the
centre,--from this crescent sprang the Marigold plant, each of whose
flowers was like
“a mimic sun,
With ray-like florets round a disk-like face.”
In my childish mind I pondered much on this fact of the crescent
growing into the full-rayed orb. Many thoughts had I of all the flowers
I knew; very dear were they, so that after I had gathered them I felt
sorry, and I had a safe place between the rocks to which I carried them
when they were withered, and hid them away from all eyes, they were so
precious even then.
The dear flowers! Summer after summer they return to me, always young
and fresh and beautiful; but so many of the friends who have watched
them and loved them with me are gone, and they return no more. I think
of the lament of Moschus for Bion:--
“Ah me, when the Mallows wither in the garden, and the green Parsley,
and the curled tendrils of the Anise, on a later day they spring, in
another year; but we men, we, the great and mighty, or wise, when once
we have died, in hollow earth we sleep, gone down into silence.”
Into silence! How deep, how unbroken is that silence! But because of
tender memories of loving eyes that see them no more, my flowers are
yet more beloved and tenderly cherished.
Year after year the island garden has grown in beauty and charm, so
that in response to the many entreaties of strangers as well as friends
who have said to me, summer after summer, “Tell us how you do it! Write
a book about it and tell us how it is done, that we may go also and
do likewise,” I have written this book at last. Truly it contains the
fruit of much sweet and bitter experience. Of what I speak I know, and
of what I know I have freely given. I trust it may help the patient
gardener to a reasonable measure of success, and to that end I have
spared no smallest detail that seemed to me necessary, no suggestion
that might prove helpful.
DUST.
Here is a problem, a wonder for all to see.
Look at this marvelous thing I hold in my hand!
This is a magic surprising, a mystery
Strange as a miracle, harder to understand.
What is it? Only a handful of earth: to your touch
A dry rough powder you trample beneath your feet,
Dark and lifeless; but think for a moment, how much
It hides and holds that is beautiful, bitter, or sweet.
Think of the glory of color! The red of the rose,
Green of the myriad leaves and the fields of grass,
Yellow as bright as the sun where the daffodil blows,
Purple where violets nod as the breezes pass.
Think of the manifold form, of the oak and the vine,
Nut, and fruit, and cluster, and ears of corn;
Of the anchored water-lily, a thing divine,
Unfolding its dazzling snow to the kiss of morn.
Think of the delicate perfumes borne on the gale,
Of the golden willow catkin’s odor of spring,
Of the breath of the rich narcissus waxen-pale,
Of the sweet pea’s flight of flowers, of the nettle’s sting.
Strange that this lifeless thing gives vine, flower, tree,
Color and shape and character, fragrance too;
That the timber that builds the house, the ship for the sea,
Out of this powder its strength and its toughness drew!
That the cocoa among the palms should suck its milk
From this dry dust, while dates from the self-same soil
Summon their sweet rich fruit: that our shining silk
The mulberry leaves should yield to the worm’s slow toil.
How should the poppy steal sleep from the very source
That grants to the grapevine juice that can madden or cheer?
How does the weed find food for its fabric coarse
Where the lilies proud their blossoms pure uprear?
Who shall compass or fathom God’s thought profound?
We can but praise, for we may not understand;
But there’s no more beautiful riddle the whole world round
Than is hid in this heap of dust I hold in my hand.
[Illustration]
THE LIST OF PICTURES FOR AN ISLAND GARDEN
PAGE
IN THE GARDEN _Frontispiece_
Title--POPPY PETALS i
Headpiece to Preface--MARGARET PINKS v
Headpiece to List of
Pictures--PANSIES AND ROSE CAMPIONS ix
Half-Title--NASTURTIUMS 1
Headpiece--POPPY TOPS 3
FROM THE DOORWAY 10
A SHADY SEAT 18
Headpiece--HUGELIA CŒRULEA 24
THE GARDEN IN ITS GLORY 38
Headpiece--SONG-SPARROWS 46
LARKSPURS AND LILIES 50
HOLLYHOCKS IN LATE SUMMER 60
Headpiece--SWEET PEAS 69
THE BRIDE 74
POPPY BANK IN THE EARLY MORNING 80
Headpiece--TEA ROSES 87
THE ALTAR AND SHRINE 94
A FAVORITE CORNER 100
Headpiece--POPPIES GOING TO SEED 105
HOME OF THE HUMMING-BIRD 112
SUNSET AND THE PINAFORE 124
[Illustration]
AN ISLAND GARDEN
BY CELIA THAXTER
WITH PAINTINGS BY
CHILDE HASSAM
[Illustration]
Of all the wonderful things in the wonderful universe of God, nothing
seems to me more surprising than the planting of a seed in the blank
earth and the result thereof. Take a Poppy seed, for instance: it lies
in your palm, the merest atom of matter, hardly visible, a speck, a
pin’s point in bulk, but within it is imprisoned a spirit of beauty
ineffable, which will break its bonds and emerge from the dark ground
and blossom in a splendor so dazzling as to baffle all powers of
description.
The Genie in the Arabian tale is not half so astonishing. In this
tiny casket lie folded roots, stalks, leaves, buds, flowers,
seed-vessels,--surpassing color and beautiful form, all that goes to
make up a plant which is as gigantic in proportion to the bounds that
confine it as the Oak is to the acorn. You may watch this marvel from
beginning to end in a few weeks’ time, and if you realize how great
a marvel it is, you can but be lost in “wonder, love, and praise.”
All seeds are most interesting, whether winged like the Dandelion and
Thistle, to fly on every breeze afar; or barbed to catch in the wool
of cattle or the garments of men, to be borne away and spread in all
directions over the land; or feathered like the little polished silvery
shuttlecocks of the Cornflower, to whirl in the wind abroad and settle
presently, point downward, into the hospitable ground; or oared like
the Maple, to row out upon the viewless tides of the air. But if I were
to pause on the threshold of the year to consider the miracles of seeds
alone, I should never, I fear, reach my garden plot at all!
He who is born with a silver spoon in his mouth is generally considered
a fortunate person, but his good fortune is small compared to that of
the happy mortal who enters this world with a passion for flowers in
his soul. I use the word advisedly, though it seems a weighty one for
the subject, for I do not mean a light or shallow affection, or even an
æsthetic admiration; no butterfly interest, but a real love which is
worthy of the name, which is capable of the dignity of sacrifice, great
enough to bear discomfort of body and disappointment of spirit, strong
enough to fight a thousand enemies for the thing beloved, with power,
with judgment, with endless patience, and to give with everything else
a subtler stimulus which is more delicate and perhaps more necessary
than all the rest.
Often I hear people say, “How do you make your plants flourish
like this?” as they admire the little flower patch I cultivate in
summer, or the window gardens that bloom for me in the winter; “I can
never make my plants blossom like this! What is your secret?” And I
answer with one word, “Love.” For that includes all,--the patience
that endures continual trial, the constancy that makes perseverance
possible, the power of foregoing ease of mind and body to minister to
the necessities of the thing beloved, and the subtle bond of sympathy
which is as important, if not more so, than all the rest. For though
I cannot go so far as a witty friend of mine, who says that when he
goes out to sit in the shade on his piazza, his Wistaria vine leans
toward him and lays her head on his shoulder, I am fully and intensely
aware that plants are conscious of love and respond to it as they do
to nothing else. You may give them all they need of food and drink and
make the conditions of their existence as favorable as possible, and
they may grow and bloom, but there is a certain ineffable something
that will be missing if you do not love them, a delicate glory too
spiritual to be caught and put into words. The Norwegians have a pretty
and significant word, “Opelske,” which they use in speaking of the care
of flowers. It means literally “loving up,” or cherishing them into
health and vigor.
[Illustration: _From the Doorway_]
Like the musician, the painter, the poet, and the rest, the true lover
of flowers is born, not made. And he is born to happiness in this vale
of tears, to a certain amount of the purest joy that earth can give her
children, joy that is tranquil, innocent, uplifting, unfailing. Given
a little patch of ground, with time to take care of it, with tools to
work it and seeds to plant in it, he has all he needs, and Nature with
her dews and suns and showers and sweet airs gives him her aid. But
he soon learns that it is not only liberty of which eternal vigilance
is the price; the saying applies quite as truly to the culture of
flowers, for the name of their enemies is legion, and they must be
fought early and late, day and night, without cessation. The cutworm,
the wire-worm, the pansy-worm, the thrip, the rose-beetle, the aphis,
the mildew, and many more, but worst of all the loathsome slug, a
slimy, shapeless creature that devours every fair and exquisite thing
in the garden,--the flower lover must seek all these with unflagging
energy, and if possible exterminate the whole. So only may he and his
precious flowers purchase peace. Manifold are the means of destruction
to be employed, for almost every pest requires a different poison.
On a closet shelf which I keep especially for them are rows of tin
pepper-boxes, each containing a deadly powder, all carefully labeled.
For the thrip that eats out the leaves of the Rosebush till they are
nothing but fibrous skeletons of woody lace, there is hellebore, to
be shaken on the under side of all the leaves,--mark you, the _under_
side, and think of the difficulties involved in the process of so
treating hundreds of leaves! For the blue or gray mildew and the
orange mildew another box holds powdered sulphur,--this is more easily
applied, shaken over the tops of the bushes, but all the leaves must
be reached, none neglected at your peril! Still another box contains
yellow snuff for the green aphis, but he is almost impossible to
manage,--let once his legions get a foothold, good-by to any hope
for you! Lime, salt, paris green, cayenne pepper, kerosene emulsion,
whale-oil soap, the list of weapons is long indeed, with which one
must fight the garden’s foes! And it must be done with such judgment,
persistence, patience, accuracy, and watchful care! It seems to me the
worst of all the plagues is the slug, the snail without a shell. He is
beyond description repulsive, a mass of sooty, shapeless slime, and
he devours everything. He seems to thrive on all the poisons known;
salt and lime are the only things that have power upon him, at least
the only things I have been able to find so far. But salt and lime
must be used very carefully, or they destroy the plant as effectually
as the slug would do. Every night, while the season is yet young, and
the precious growths just beginning to make their way upward, feeling
their strength, I go at sunset and heap along the edge of the flower
beds air-slaked lime, or round certain most valuable plants a ring of
the same,--the slug cannot cross this while it is fresh, but should it
be left a day or two it loses its strength, it has no more power to
burn, and the enemy may slide over it unharmed, leaving his track of
slime. On many a solemn midnight have I stolen from my bed to visit
my cherished treasures by the pale glimpses of the moon, that I might
be quite sure the protecting rings were still strong enough to save
them, for the slug eats by night, he is invisible by day unless it
rains or the sky be overcast. He hides under every damp board or in
any nook of shade, because the sun is death to him. I use salt for his
destruction in the same way as the lime, but it is so dangerous for the
plants, I am always afraid of it. Neither of these things must be left
about them when they are watered lest the lime or salt sink into the
earth in such quantities as to injure the tender roots. I have little
cages of fine wire netting which I adjust over some plants, carefully
heaping the earth about them to leave no loophole through which the
enemy may crawl, and round some of the beds, which are inclosed in
strips of wood, boxed, to hold the earth in place, long shallow troughs
of wood are nailed and filled with salt to keep off the pests. Nothing
that human ingenuity can suggest do I leave untried to save my beloved
flowers! Every evening at sunset I pile lime and salt about my pets,
and every morning remove it before I sprinkle them at sunrise. The salt
dissolves of itself in the humid sea air and in the dew, so around
those for whose safety I am most solicitous I lay rings of pasteboard
on which to heap it, to be certain of doing the plants no harm. Judge,
reader, whether all this requires strength, patience, perseverance,
hope! It is hard work beyond a doubt, but I do not grudge it, for great
is my reward. Before I knew what to do to save my garden from the
slugs, I have stood at evening rejoicing over rows of fresh emerald
leaves just springing in rich lines along the beds, and woke in the
morning to find the whole space stripped of any sign of green, as blank
as a board over which a carpenter’s plane has passed.
In the thickest of my fight with the slugs some one said to me,
“Everything living has its enemy; the enemy of the slug is the toad.
Why don’t you import toads?”
I snatched at the hope held out to me, and immediately wrote to a
friend on the continent, “In the name of the Prophet, Toads!” At once a
force of only too willing boys was set about the work of catching every
toad within reach, and one day in June a boat brought a box to me from
the far-off express office. A piece of wire netting was nailed across
the top, and upon the earth with which it was half filled, reposing
among some dry and dusty green leaves, sat three dry and dusty toads,
wearily gazing at nothing. Is this all, I thought, only three! Hardly
worth sending so far. Poor creatures, they looked so arid and wilted,
I took up the hose and turned upon them a gentle shower of fresh cool
water, flooding the box. I was not prepared for the result! The dry,
baked earth heaved tumultuously; up came dusky heads and shoulders and
bright eyes by the dozen. A sudden concert of liquid sweet notes was
poured out on the air from the whole rejoicing company. It was really
beautiful to hear that musical ripple of delight. I surveyed them with
eager interest as they sat singing and blinking together. “You are not
handsome,” I said, as I took a hammer and wrenched off the wire cover
that shut them in, “but you will be lovely in my sight if you will
help me to destroy mine enemy;” and with that I turned the box on its
side and out they skipped into a perfect paradise of food and shade.
All summer I came upon them in different parts of the garden, waxing
fatter and fatter till they were as round as apples. In the autumn baby
toads no larger than my thumb nail were found hopping merrily over the
whole island. There were sixty in that first importation; next summer I
received ninety more. But alas! small dogs discover them in the grass
and delight to tear and worry them to death, and the rats prey upon
them so that many perish in that way; yet I hope to keep enough to
preserve my garden in spite of fate.
In France the sale of toads for the protection of gardens is universal,
and I find under the head of “A Garden Friend,” in a current newspaper,
the following item:--
“One is amused, in walking through the great Covent Garden Market,
London, to find toads among the commodities offered for sale. In such
favor do these familiar reptiles stand with English market gardeners
that they readily command a shilling apiece.... The toad has indeed no
superior as a destroyer of noxious insects, and as he possesses no bad
habits and is entirely inoffensive himself, every owner of a garden
should treat him with the utmost hospitality. It is quite worth the
while not only to offer any simple inducements which suggest themselves
for rendering the premises attractive to him, but should he show a
tendency to wander away from them, to go so far as to exercise a
gentle force in bringing him back to the regions where his services may
be of the greatest utility.”
One of the most universal pests is the cutworm, a fat, naked worm of
varying lengths. I have seen them two inches and a half long and as
large round as my little finger. This unpleasant creature lives in the
ground about the roots of plants. I have known one to go through a
whole row of Sweet Peas and cut them off smoothly above the roots just
as a sickle would do; there lay the dead stalks in melancholy line. It
makes no difference what the plant may be, they will level all without
distinction. The only remedy for this plague is to scratch all about
in the earth round the roots of the plants where their ravages begin,
dig the worms out, and kill them. I have found sometimes whole nests
of them with twenty young ones at once. Lime dug into the soil is
recommended to destroy them, but there is no remedy so sure as seeking
a personal interview and slaying them on the spot. They are not by any
means always to be discovered, but the gardener must again exercise
that endless patience upon which the success of the garden depends, and
be never weary of seeking them till they are found.
Another enemy to my flowers, and a truly formidable one, is my little
friend the song-sparrow. Literally he gives the plot of ground no peace
if I venture to put seeds into it. He obliges me to start almost all
my seeds in boxes, to be transplanted into the beds when the plants
are sufficiently tough to have lost their delicacy for his palate and
are no longer adapted to his ideal of a salad. All the Sweet Peas,
many hundreds of the delicate plants, are every one grown in this
way. When they are a foot high with roots a foot long they are all
transplanted separately. Even then the little robber attacks them,
and, though he cannot uproot, he will “yank” and twist the stems till
he has murdered them in the vain hope of pulling up the remnant of a
pea which he judges to be somewhere beneath the surface. Then must
sticks and supports be draped with yards of old fishing nets to protect
the unfortunates, and over the Mignonette, and even the Poppy beds
and others, I must lay a cover of closely woven wire to keep out the
marauder. But I love him still, though sadly he torments me. I have
adored his fresh music ever since I was a child, and I only laugh as
he sits on the fence watching me with his bright black eyes; there is
something quaintly comical and delightful about him, and he sings like
a friendly angel. From him I can protect myself, but I cannot save my
garden so easily from the hideous slug, for which I have no sentiment
save only a fury of extermination.
If possible, it is much the best way to begin in the autumn to work
for the garden of the next spring, and the first necessity is the
preparation of the soil. If the gardener is as fortunate as I am at
the Isles of Shoals, there will be no trouble in doing this, for there
the barn manure is heaped in certain waste places, out of the way,
and left till every change of wind and weather, of temperature and
climate, have so wrought upon it that it becomes a fine, odorless,
velvet-brown earth, rich in all needful sustenance for almost all
plants,--“well-rotted manure,” the “Old Farmer’s Almanac” calls it. But
if there is no mine of wealth such as this from which to draw, there
are many fertilizers, sold by all seed and plant merchants, which will
answer the purpose very well. I have, however, never found anything to
equal barn manure as food for flowers, and if not possible to obtain
this in a state fit for immediate use, it is best to have several
cart-loads taken from the barn in autumn and piled in a heap near the
garden plot, there to remain all winter, till rains and snows and cold
and heat, all the powers of the elements, have worked their will upon
it, and rendered it fit for use in the coming spring. Many people make
a compost heap,--it is an excellent thing to do,--piling turf and
dead leaves and refuse together, and leaving it to slow decay till it
becomes a fine, rich, mellow earth. In my case the barn manure has been
more easily obtained, and so I have used it always and with complete
success, but I have a compost heap also, to use for plants which do not
like barn manure.
As late as possible, before the ground freezes, I dig up the single
Dahlia tubers (there are no double ones in my garden), and put them in
boxes filled with clean, dry sand, to keep in a frost-free cellar till
spring. I find Gladiolus bulbs, Tulips, Lilies, and so forth, will keep
perfectly well in the ground through the winter at the Shoals. Over
the Foxgloves, Iceland Poppies, Wallflowers, Mullein Pinks, Picotees,
and other perennials, I scatter the fine barn manure lightly, over
the Hollyhocks more heavily, and about the Rosebushes I heap it up
high, quite two thirds of their whole height,--you cannot give them
too much, only be careful that enough of their length, that is to say,
one third of the highest sprays, are left out in the air, that they
may breathe. In the spring this manure must all be carefully dug into
the ground round their roots. About Honeysuckles, Clematis, Grapevine,
and so forth, I pile it plentifully, mixed with wood ashes, which is
especially good for Grapevine and Rosebushes. But the white Lilies,
and indeed Lilies generally, do not like to come in contact with the
barn manure, so they are protected by leaves and boughs, and the earth
near them enriched in the spring, carefully avoiding the contact which
they dislike. When putting the garden in order in the autumn, all the
dry Sweet Pea vines, and dead stalks of all kinds, which are pulled
up to clear the ground, I heap for shelter over the perennials, being
careful to lay small bayberry branches over first, so that I may in no
way interfere with a free circulation of air about them. In open spaces
where no perennials are growing I scatter the manure thickly, that the
ground may be slowly and surely enriched all through the winter and be
ready to furnish bountiful nourishment for every green growing thing
through the summer. When the little plot is spaded in April, all this
is dug in and mixed thoroughly with the soil.
When the snow is still blowing against the window-pane in January and
February, and the wild winds are howling without, what pleasure it is
to plan for summer that is to be! Small shallow wooden boxes are ready,
filled with mellow earth (of which I am always careful to lay in a
supply before the ground freezes in the autumn), sifted and made damp;
into it the precious seeds are dropped with a loving hand. The Pansy
seeds lie like grains of gold on the dark soil. I think as I look at
them of the splendors of imperial purples folded within them, of their
gold and blue and bronze, of all the myriad combinations of superb
color in their rich velvets. Each one of these small golden grains
means such a wealth of beauty and delight! Then the thin flake-like
brown seeds of the annual Stocks or Gillyflowers; one little square
of paper holds the white Princess Alice variety, so many thick double
spikes of fragrant snow lie hidden in each thin dry flake! Another
paper holds the pale rose-color, another the delicate lilacs, or deep
purples, or shrimp pinks, or vivid crimsons,--all are dropped on the
earth, lightly covered, gently pressed down; then sprinkled and set in
a warm place, they are left to germinate. Next I come to the single
Dahlia seeds, rough, dry, misshapen husks, that, being planted thus
early, will blossom by the last of June, unfolding their large rich
stars in great abundance till frost. They blossom in every variety of
color except blue; all shades of red from faint rose to black maroon,
and all are gold-centred. They are every shade of yellow from sulphur
to flame,--king’s flowers, I call them, stately and splendid.
All these and many more are planted. For those that do not bear
transplanting I prepare other quarters, half filling shallow boxes
with sand, into which I set rows of egg-shells close together, each
shell cut off at one end, with a hole for drainage at the bottom. These
are filled with earth, and in them the seeds of the lovely yellow,
white, and orange Iceland Poppies are sowed. By and by, when comes the
happy time for setting them out in the garden beds, the shell can be
broken away from the oval ball of earth that holds their roots without
disturbing them, and they are transplanted almost without knowing it.
It is curious how differently certain plants feel about this matter of
transplanting. The more you move a Pansy about the better it seems to
like it, and many annuals grow all the better for one transplanting;
but to a Poppy it means death, unless it is done in some such careful
way as I have described.
The boxes of seeds are put in a warm, dark place, for they only require
heat and moisture till they germinate. Then when the first precious
green leaves begin to appear, what a pleasure it is to wait and tend
on the young growths, which are moved carefully to some cool, sunny
chamber window in a room where no fire is kept, for heat becomes
the worst enemy at this stage, and they spindle and dwindle if not
protected from it. When they are large enough, having attained to
their second leaves, each must be put into a little pot or egg-shell
by itself (all except the Poppies and their companions, already in
egg-shells), so that by the time the weather is warm enough they will
be ready to be set out, stout and strong, for early blooming.
This pleasant business goes on during the winter in the picturesque old
town of Portsmouth, New Hampshire, whither I repair in the autumn from
the Isles of Shoals, remaining through the cold weather and returning
to the islands on the first of April. My upper windows all winter are
filled with young Wallflowers, Stocks, single Dahlias, Hollyhocks,
Poppies, and many other garden plants, which are watched and tended
with the most faithful care till the time comes for transporting them
over the seas to Appledore. A small steam tug, the Pinafore, carries me
and my household belongings over to the islands, and a pretty sight is
the little vessel when she starts out from the old brown wharves and
steams away down the beautiful Piscataqua River, with her hurricane
deck awave with green leaves and flowers, for all the world like a
May Day procession. My blossoming house plants go also, and there are
Palms and Ferns and many other lovely things that make the small boat
gay indeed. All the boxes of sprouted seedlings are carefully packed
in wide square baskets to keep them steady, and the stout young plants
hold up their strong stems and healthy green leaves, and take the wind
and sun bravely as the vessel goes tossing over the salt waves out to
sea.
By the first of April it is time to plant Sweet Peas. From this time
till the second week in May, when one may venture to transplant into
the garden, the boxes containing the myriads of seedlings must be
carefully watched and tended, put out of doors on piazza roofs and
balcony through the days and taken in again at night, solicitously
protected from too hot suns and too rough winds, too heavy rains or too
low a temperature,--they require continual care. But it is joy to give
them all they need, and pleasure indeed to watch their vigorous growth.
Meanwhile there is much delightful work to be done in making the small
garden plot ready. This little island garden of mine is so small that
the amount of pure delight it gives in the course of a summer is
something hardly to be credited. It lies along the edge of a piazza
forty or fifty feet long, sloping to the south, not more than fifteen
feet wide, sheltered from the north winds and open to the sun. The
whole piazza is thickly draped with vines, Hops, Honeysuckles, blue and
white Clematis, Cinnamon Vine, _Mina Lobata_, Wistaria, Nasturtiums,
Morning-glories, Japanese Hops, Woodbine, and the beautiful, and
picturesque Wild Cucumber (_Echinocystus Lobata_), which in July
nearly smothers everything else and clothes itself in a veil of filmy
white flowers in loose clusters, fragrant, but never too sweet, always
refreshing and exquisite. The vines make a grateful green shade, doubly
delightful for that there are no trees on my island, and the shade is
most welcome in the wide brilliancy of sea and sky.
In the first week of April the ground is spaded for me: after
that no hands touch it save my own throughout the whole season. Day
after day it is so pleasant working in the bright cool spring air, for
as yet the New England spring is alert and brisk in temperature and
shows very little softening in its moods. But by the seventh day of the
month, as I stand pruning the Rosebushes, there is a flutter of glad
wings, and lo! the first house martins! Beautiful creatures, with their
white breasts and steel-blue wings, wheeling, chattering, and scolding
at me, for they think I stand too near their little brown house on
the corner of the piazza eaves, and they let me know their opinion by
coming as near as they dare and snapping their beaks at me with a low
guttural sound of displeasure. But after a few days, when they have
found they cannot scare me and that I do not interfere with them, they
conclude that I am a harmless kind of creature and endure me with
tranquillity. Straightway they take possession of their summer quarters
and begin to build their cosy nest within. Oh, then the weeks of joyful
work, the love-making, the cooing, chattering, calling, in tones
of the purest delight and content, the tilting against the wind on
burnished wings, the wheeling, fluttering, coquetting, and caressing,
the while they bring feathers and straw and shreds and down for their
nest-weaving,--all this goes on till after the eggs are laid, when
they settle down into comparative quiet. Then often the father bird
sits and meditates happily in the sun upon his tiny brown chimney-top,
while the mother bird broods below. Or they go out and take a dip in
the air together, or sit conversing in pretty cadences a little space,
till mother bird must hie indoors to the eggs she dare not leave longer
lest they grow chill. And this sweet little drama is repeated all about
the island, on sunny roofs and corners and tall posts, wherever a bird
house has been built for their convenience. All through April and May I
watch them as I go to and fro about my business, while they attend to
theirs; we do not interfere with each other; they have made up their
minds to endure me, but I adore them! Flattered indeed am I if, while
I am at work upon the flower beds below, father martin comes and sits
close to me on the fence rail and chatters musically, unmindful of my
quiet movements, quite fearless and at home.
[Illustration: _A Shady Seat_]
While I am busy with pleasant preparation and larger hope, I rejoice
in the beauty of the pure white Snowdrops I found blossoming in their
sunny corner when I arrived on the first of April, fragile winged
things with their delicate sea-green markings and fresh, grass-like
leaves. Ever since the first of March have they been blossoming, and
the Crocus flowers begin, as if blown out of the earth, like long,
lovely bubbles of gold and purple, or white, pure or streaked with
lilac, to break, under the noon sun, into beautiful petals, showing the
orange anthers like flame within. And the little Scilla Siberica hangs
its enchanting bells out to the breeze, blue, oh, blue as the deep sea
water at its bluest under cloudless skies. And later, yellow Daffodils
and Jonquils, “Tulips dashed with fiery dew,” the exquisite, mystic
poet’s Narcissus, and one crimson Peony,--my little garden has not room
for more than one of these large plants, so early blossoming and at
their end so soon.
In the first week of May every year punctually arrive the barn
swallows and the sandpipers at the Isles of Shoals. This seems a very
commonplace statement of a very simple fact, but would it were possible
to convey in words the sense of delight with which they are welcomed on
this sea-surrounded rock!
Some morning in the first of May I sit in the sunshine and soft air,
transplanting my young Pansies and Gillyflowers into the garden
beds,--father and mother martin on the fence watching me and talking to
each other in a charming language, the import of which is clear enough,
though my senses are not sufficiently delicate to comprehend the words.
The song-sparrows pour out their simple, friendly lays from bush and
wall and fence and gable peak all about me. Down in a hollow I hear
the brimming note of the white-throated sparrow,--brimming is the only
word that expresses it,--like “a beaker full of the warm South,”--such
joy, such overflowing measure of bliss! There is a challenge from a
robin, perhaps, or a bobolink sends down his “brook o’ laughter through
the air,” or high and far a curlew calls; there is a gentle lapping
of waves from the full tide, for the sea is only a stone’s-throw from
my garden fence. I hear the voices of the children prattling not far
away; there are no other sounds. Suddenly from the shore comes a clear
cry thrice repeated, “Sweet, sweet, sweet!” And I call to my neighbor,
my brother, working also in his garden plot, “The sandpiper! Do you
hear him?” and the glad news goes from mouth to mouth, “The sandpiper
has come!” Oh, the lovely note again and again repeated, “Sweet,
sweet, sweet!” echoing softly in the stillness of the tide-brimmed
coves, where the quiet water seems to hush itself to listen. Never so
tender a cry is uttered by any bird I know; it is the most exquisitely
beautiful, caressing tone, heard in the dewy silence of morning and
evening. He has many and varied notes and calls, some colloquial, some
business-like, some meditative, and his cry of fear breaks my heart to
hear when any evil threatens his beloved nest; but this tender call,
“Sweet, sweet,” is the most enchanting sound, happy with a fullness of
joy that never fails to bring a thrill to the heart that listens. It is
like the voice of Love itself.
Then out of the high heaven above, at once one hears the happy chorus
of the barn swallows; they come rejoicing, their swift wings cleave the
blue, they fill the air with woven melody of grace and music. Till late
August they remain. Like the martins’, their note is pure joy; there is
no coloring of sadness in any sound they make. The sandpiper’s note is
pensive with all its sweetness; there is a quality of thoughtfulness,
as it were, in the voice of the song-sparrow; the robin has many sad
cadences; in the fairy bugling of the oriole there is a triumphant
richness, but not such pure delight; the blackbird’s call is keen
and sweet, but not so glad; and the bobolink, when he shakes those
brilliant jewels of sound from his bright throat, is always the prince
of jokers, full of fun, but not so happy as comical. The swallows’
twittering seems an expression of unalloyed rapture,--I should select
it from the songs of all the birds I know as the voice of unshadowed
gladness.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
“God Almightie first planted a Garden,” says Lord Bacon. “And indeed it
is the Purest of Humane Pleasures, it is the Greatest Refreshment to
the Spirits of Man.” Never were truer words spoken.
So deeply is the gardener’s instinct implanted in my soul, I really
love the tools with which I work,--the iron fork, the spade, the hoe,
the rake, the trowel, and the watering-pot are pleasant objects in my
eyes. The ingenuity of modern times has invented many variations of
these primitive instruments of toil, and many of them are most useful
and helpful, as, for instance, a short, five-pronged hand-fork, a
delightful tool to use in breaking up the earth about the roots of
weeds. Some of the weeds are so wide-spreading and tenacious, like
clover and mallow, that they seem to have fastened themselves around
the nether millstone, it is so difficult to disengage their hold. Once
loosened, however, by the friendly little fork, they must come up,
whether they will or no.
I like to take the hoe in my hands and break to pieces the clods of
earth left by the overturning spade, to work into the soil the dark,
velvet-smooth, scentless barn manure which is to furnish the best of
food for my flowers; it is a pleasure to handle the light rake, drawing
it evenly through the soil and combing out every stick and stone and
straw and lump, till the ground is as smooth and fine as meal. This
done carefully and thoroughly, the beds laid out neatly, with their
surface level as a floor, and not heaped high enough to let the rains
run off,--then is the ground ready for the sowing of the seeds.
The very act of planting a seed in the earth has in it to me something
beautiful. I always do it with a joy that is largely mixed with awe. I
watch my garden beds after they are sown, and think how one of God’s
exquisite miracles is going on beneath the dark earth out of sight. I
never forget my planted seeds. Often I wake in the night and think how
the rains and the dews have reached to the dry shell and softened it;
how the spirit of life begins to stir within, and the individuality
of the plant to assert itself; how it is thrusting two hands forth
from the imprisoning husk, one, the root, to grasp the earth, to hold
itself firm and absorb its food, the other stretching above to find the
light, that it may drink in the breeze and sunshine and so climb to
its full perfection of beauty. It is curious that the leaf should so
love the light and the root so hate it. In his “Proserpina” John Ruskin
discourses on this subject in his own inimitable way. All he says of
this is most interesting and suggestive: “The first instinct of the
stem, ... the instinct of seeking the light, as of the root to seek
darkness--what words can speak the wonder of it?” If “the seed falls
in the ground with the springing germ of it downwards, with heavenly
cunning the taught stem curls round and seeks the never seen light.”
The “taught” stem! Who taught it? What he says of the leaves and stems
is very beautiful; every one should read it. I really do not know which
is most wonderful of these descriptions of his, but nothing could be
more striking than this definition: “A root is a group of growing
fibres which taste and suck what is good for the plant out of the
ground, and by their united strength hold it in its place.... The thick
limbs of roots do not feed, but only the fine ends of them, which are
something between tongues and sponges, and while they absorb moisture
readily, are yet as particular about getting what they think nice to
eat as any dainty little boy or girl; looking for it everywhere, and
turning angry and sulky if they don’t get it.”
There could not be a better description than this, and if any
seedsman would like to make his fortune without delay, he has only
to have printed on every packet of seed he offers for sale the kind
of soil, the food, required by each plant. For instance, why not
say of Mignonette, It flourishes best in a poor and sandy soil; so
treated it is much more fragrant than in a rich earth, which causes
it to run to leaves and makes its flowers fewer and less sweet. Or of
Poppies, Plant them in a rich sandy loam, all except the Californias
(_Eschscholtzia_), which do best in a poor soil. Or of Pansies, Give
them the richest earth you can find, no end of water, and partial
shade. Or, Don’t worry over drought for your Nasturtiums; they come
from Chile and will live and thrive with less water than almost
anything else that grows; don’t trouble yourself to enrich the ground
for them; that makes them profuse and coarse of leaves and sparing of
flowers; leave them to shift for themselves, once having cleared them
of weeds. No flower bears neglect so well. Or, Give your Zinnias a
heavy soil; they like clay. Or, Keep Sweet Peas as wet as you can and
make the ground for them as rich as possible. Or, Keep barn manure away
from your Lilies for your life! they will not brook contact with it,
but a rich soil they also like, only it must be made so by anything
rather than stable manure, and they, too, like clay; they blossom
best when it is given them. But transport to your garden a portion
of the very barnyard itself in which to set Roses, Sunflowers and
Hollyhocks, Honeysuckles and Dahlias. Hints of this kind would be to
the unaccustomed tiller of the soil simply invaluable. How much they
would lessen failures and discouragements! And to learn these things by
one’s self takes half a lifetime of sad experience.
To return to our planting. Yes, the sowing of a seed seems a very
simple matter, but I always feel as if it were a sacred thing among
the mysteries of God. Standing by that space of blank and motionless
ground, I think of all it holds for me of beauty and delight, and I
am filled with joy at the thought that I may be the magician to whom
power is given to summon so sweet a pageant from the silent and passive
soil. I bring a mat from the house and kneel by the smooth bed of
mellow brown earth, lay a narrow strip of board across it a few inches
from one end, draw a furrow firmly and evenly in the ground along the
edge of the board, repeating this until the whole bed is grooved at
equal distances across its entire length. Into these straight furrows
the living seeds are dropped, the earth replaced over them (with a
depth of about twice their diameter), and the board laid flat with
gentle pressure over all the surface till it is perfectly smooth again.
Then must the whole be lightly and carefully watered. With almost all
the seeds sown in this bird-blest and persecuted little garden, I am
obliged to lay newspapers or some protection over the planted beds,
and over these again sheets of wire netting, to keep off the singing
sparrows till the seeds are safely sprouted. Last year, one morning
early in May, I put a border of Mignonette seeds round every flower
bed. When I came to the garden again in the afternoon, it was alive
with flirting wings and tails and saucy beaks and bright eyes, and
stout little legs and claws scratching like mad; all white-throats
and song-sparrows, and hardly a seed had these merry little marauders
left in the ground. Around the edge of each bed a groove ran, nicely
hollowed by their industrious feet, and empty as my hopes. I replaced
the seed from my store, and this time took great pains to lay two
laths side by side over the lines I had sowed, for safety. Next
morning I found the birds again at it; they had burrowed under, kicked
over, scratched away the light sticks, and again the seeds were all
devoured. Patiently I planted once more, and this time dragged from a
pile of lumber heavy square beams of different lengths, which I laid
along the borders. The birds eyed the barricades, strove to burrow
under, but were forced to give it up, and so at last I conquered. In
the course of a week I turned over the protecting beams and found the
little Mignonette plants white as potato shoots that have sprouted
in a cellar, but safe, for which I was devoutly thankful! A day or
two of sun and air made them green and strong, and all summer long I
valued every fragrant spike of flowers they gave me, doubly, because
of all the trouble I had gone through to save them. I mention this
little episode merely to illustrate the fact that the would-be gardener
requires more patience than most mortals!
The state of the weather, the temperature of the air, the amount of
rain which falls, make all the difference in the world in the time it
takes for the first green leaves to appear. Some seeds take longer than
others to germinate: for instance, Hollyhocks, Marigolds, ten weeks
Stocks or Gillyflowers, Rose of Heaven, Zinnias, and many others come
up in from three to five days if all circumstances are favorable, that
is, if it is warm, moist, and sunny enough; Asters, single Dahlias,
Sunflowers, Cornflowers, Mignonette, Coreopsis, Morning-glory, Picotee
Pinks, Wallflowers, Sweet Williams, and by far the greater number of
annuals appear in from five to seven days; Balsams, Pansies, Begonias,
Drummond’s Phlox, Poppies, Verbenas, Thunbergia, and many others,
in from eight to ten days; Columbines, Flax, Artemisia, Feverfew,
Campanula, and so forth, in from ten to twelve days; Maurandia,
Forget-me-not, Petunia, Lantana, Nicotiana (an exquisite flower, by
the way), in from twelve to fifteen days; Cobœa, Gloxinia, Primroses,
Geraniums, and others, in from fifteen to twenty days; Perennial
Phlox, Clematis, Perennial Larkspurs (which are heavenly!), and
various others, take from twenty to thirty-five days to germinate; and
as for Lupines and Lilies and Ampelopsis, and the like, they take a
whole year! But common gardeners don’t try to raise these from seed,
fortunately.
With the first faint green lines that are visible along the flower beds
come the weeds, yea, and even before them; a wild, vigorous, straggling
army, full of health, of strength, and a most marvelous power of
growth. These must be dealt with at once and without mercy; they must
be pulled up root and branch, without a moment’s delay. There is clover
that appears with a little circular leaf and has a root that seems to
reach all round in the under world; it goes everywhere and holds on
to the earth with a grip which is unequaled by anything that grows.
Not an atom of its roots must be left in the ground, for every thread
of it will send up new shoots, and if not watched fill all the space
in a few weeks. Another difficult weed to manage is the chickweed,
which is so delicate that it breaks at the slightest touch. It is a
most all-pervading weed; it fills every space between the flowers,
overruns them like a green mist, and will surely strangle them if left
unmolested. Alphonse Karr, who so greatly enjoyed his garden, and wrote
of it with so much pleasure, says: “The chickweed is endowed with a
fecundity that no other plant possesses.... Seven or eight generations
of chickweed cover the earth every year.... It occupies the fields
naturally, and invades our gardens; it is almost impossible to destroy
it.”