in the east, over a sea as calm as a mirror. How could I wait for
the sun to lift its scarlet rim above the dim sea-line (though it
rose punctually at forty-seven minutes past four), when my precious
flower beds were waiting for me! It was not possible, and I was up
and dressed before he had flooded the earth with glory. “Straight
was a path of gold for him,” I said, as I gazed out at the long line
of liquid splendor along the ocean. All the boxes and baskets of the
more delicate seedlings were to be put out from my chamber window on
flat house-top and balcony, they and the forest of Sweet Peas to be
thoroughly watered, and the Pansies half shaded with paper lest the
sun should work them woe. At five the household was stirring, there
was time to write a letter or two, then came breakfast before six,
and by half past six I was out of doors at work in the vast circle
of motionless silence, for the sea was too calm for me to hear even
its breathing. It was so beautiful,--the dewy quiet, the freshness,
the long, still shadows, the matchless, delicate, sweet charm of the
newly wakened world. Such a color as the grass had taken on during the
last few warm days; and where the early shadows lay long across it,
such indescribable richness of tone! There was so much for me to do, I
hardly knew where to begin. At the east of the house the bed of Pansies
set out yesterday was bright with promise, every little plant holding
itself gladly erect. I began with the trellis each side of the steps
leading down into the garden, and first set out a Cobœa Scandens, one
to the right and one to the left,--strong, sturdy plants which I had
been keeping weeks in the house till it should be warm enough to trust
them out of doors. They were a foot high and stretching their sensitive
tendrils in all directions, seeking something for support. They grasped
the trellis at once and seemed to spread out every leaf to the warm
sun, while I poured cool water and liquid manure about their roots, and
congratulated them on their escape into the open ground. Near them,
against the same trellis, I put down two Tropæolum Lobbianum Lucifers,
a new scarlet variety of these delicate Nasturtiums, that they might
climb together over the broad arch. Some time ago I had planted there
also some Mexican Morning-glories sent me by an unknown friend, and
if they come up, and Cobœa, Nasturtiums, and Morning-glories all
climb together and clasp hands with Honeysuckle, Wistaria, and Wild
Cucumber, my porch will, indeed, be a bower of beauty! Then against
wall and fence I set out the stout bushes of single Dahlias which
have been growing ever since last January. A new variety called Star
of Lyons interests me. I am anxious to know what it is like, what its
color, what its shape. It is such a pleasure always to be finding new
varieties and combinations, fresh surprises in unfamiliar flowers.
Seeking the smallest posy bed I own, into this I transplanted another
stranger, Papaver Alpinum Roseum, a rose-colored Iceland Poppy. How
I shall watch it grow, and how eagerly wait for it to blossom! Eight
egg-shells full of it were set down and carefully watered. Next, a row
of baby Wallflowers were established in a long line near the tall ones
that are thick with buds. I am going to try to have a succession of
bloom from these, if it can be accomplished, all summer. In another
bed I began to set out a few of the choicest Sweet Peas, the new
kinds; these were already a foot long from tip to root ends. I have no
words to tell what pleasant work this is! After the Sweet Peas were
comfortably settled, I covered the whole bed with a length of light
mosquito net, pegging it at the corners, laying sticks and stones along
the edges to hold it down, so that the saucy sparrows should find no
loophole by which to wriggle inside; they having watched the whole
process with interested eyes from their perch on the fence-rail. How
beautiful it was to be sitting there in the sweet weather, working in
the wholesome brown earth! Just beyond the Sweet Peas I could see
my strong white Lilies springing up, a foot high already, with the
splendid hardy Larkspurs behind them, promising a wealth of white and
gold and azure by and by. From time to time through the calm morning,
as I labored thus peacefully, I heard the loons laughing loud and
clear in the stillness, and by lifting my head could see them off the
end of the wharf at the landing swimming to and fro with their bright
reflections, catching no end of fish and having the most delightful
time,--every now and then half raising themselves from the water and
flapping their wings, showing the dazzling white with which the strong
pinions were lined, and laughing again and again with a wild and eerie
sound. This means that a storm is coming, I know. But I love to hear
them, and how devoutly thankful I am that there is not a creature with
a gun on this blessed island! The loons know it well, or they never
would venture in so near, while they shout to the morning their wild
cries.
Near me, where I had made the earth so very wet, suddenly fluttered
down a ruddy-breasted barn swallow, the beauty! for on such heavenly
terms are we that he did not mind me in the least as he gathered a
tiny load of mud for his nest against the rafters in the barn, and
flew away with it low on the wind. The barn swallows do not visit my
small inclosure as often as do my nearer neighbors, the white-breasted
martins.
All this time the lovely day was slowly changing its early delicate
colors and freshness for the whiter light of noon. By twelve o’clock
the wind had “hauled” from west to south, going round through the
east, and sending millions of light ripples across the glassy water,
deepening its color to sparkling sapphire, and at last the sun
overhead seemed to pelt quicksilver in floods upon it, and then it was
dinner-time. After an hour of rest again I took up my work. All about,
here and there and everywhere, I dug up the scattered Echinocystus
vines and set them against the house, so that they could run up the
trellises on all sides to make grateful shade by and by. A few straying
Primroses waited to be moved outside the fence,--they take up so much
room within, and room is so precious inside the garden. Young plants of
the charming, old-fashioned Sweet Rocket had to be collected from the
nooks where they had sown themselves far and near, and set in clumps in
corners. Then there was a box of white Forget-me-nots some one had sent
me, to be established in their places, and I finished the afternoon
by planting Shirley Poppies all up and down the large bank at the
southwest of the garden, outside. I am always planting Shirley Poppies
somewhere! One never can have enough of them, and by putting them into
the ground at intervals of a week, later and later, one can secure
a succession of bloom and keep them for a much longer time,--keep,
indeed, their heavenly beauty to enjoy the livelong summer,--whereas,
if they are all planted at once you would see them for a blissful
moment, a week or ten days at most, and then they are gone. I have
planted and am going to continue planting till the middle of June,
in this year of grace 1893, no less than two whole ounces of Shirley
Poppies in all, and when one reflects that the seeds are so small as to
be hardly more than visible to the naked eye, one realizes this to be a
great many.
[Illustration: _Larkspurs and Lilies_]
May 12th. Again a radiant day. I watched the thin white half ring of
the waning moon as it stole up the east through the May haze at dawn.
This kind of haze belongs especially to this month; it is such an
exquisite color, like ashes of roses, till the sun suffuses it with
a burning blush before he leaps alive from the ocean’s rim. Again in
the garden at a little after six, to find the sparrows busy tunneling
up and down the bank, devouring the Poppies that I planted yesterday.
How they can see the seeds at all, or why they should care to feast on
anything so small, or why they do not all perish, as poor Pillicoddy
proposed doing, from the effects of such doses of opium, passes my
understanding. There was nothing to be done but to plant them all over
and then trail through the dewy grass long boards to lay up and down,
covering the bank, for protection.
First, there were the small Tea Rosebushes to be set out in their sunny
bed, made rich with finely sifted manure and soot and a sprinkling of
wood ashes. And here let me say that all through the spring, beginning
when the hardy Damask and Jacqueminots, etc., are just unfolding their
leaf buds, it is a most excellent plan to sift wood ashes quite thickly
over all the Rosebushes, either just after a shower or after you have
been sprinkling them; let it remain on them for several hours,--if the
sun is not shining I leave it half a day,--but then it must all be
carefully washed off, every trace of it, or it will spoil the leaves.
This kills or discourages all sorts of insect pests, and the effect of
the ashes on the soil about their roots is most beneficial to the Roses.
As I sat in measureless content by the little flower bed, carefully
slipping my pretty Bon Silenes and Catherine Mermets and yellow Sunsets
and the rest out of their pots, and gently firming them in the ground,
with plenty of water for refreshment, a cloud of the most delicious
perfume brooded about me from a bed of white violets at the left, the
hardiest, faithfulest, friendliest little flowers in the world. I
found two small Polyantha Roses had lived all winter in this sheltered
bed; that was indeed a charming find! At the back of it grows a tall
Jacqueminot, a black Tuscany Rose, and the strong white Rosa Rugosa, a
Japanese variety which bears very large single flowers in the greatest
profusion. This Rose is extremely valuable, easily obtained, so hardy
as to be almost indestructible, and absolutely untroubled by any
disease or insect plague whatever. Its foliage is always fresh and
handsome, and its seed vessels are huge scarlet balls as large as an
average Crab-Apple, most ornamental after the flowers are gone. But
the old, old black Tuscany Rose is the most precious of all. Mine came
from an ancient garden that vanished long ago, but which used to be a
glory to the town in which it grew. It is a hardy Rose also, in color
so darkly red as to be almost black,--a warm red, less crimson than
scarlet, glowing with a kind of smouldering splendor, with only two
rows of petals round a centre of richest gold. At the end of this bed
is a Water Hyacinth floating in its tub, and near it, in another tub,
a large pink Water Lily, kept over from last summer in a frost-proof
cellar, is sending up the loveliest leaves, touched with so sweet a
crimson as to be almost as delightful as the blossoms themselves. All
the rest of this day was spent in transplanting Asters from boxes into
the beds all over the garden, edging nearly every bed with them, so
that when the fleeting glory of Poppies and other earlier annuals is
gone there will still be beautiful color to gladden our eyes late in
the summer, quite into the autumn days.
In the afternoon I had all the many boxes of Sweet Peas brought to the
piazza to be ready for transplanting, but remembering the sparrows, I
covered each box carefully with mosquito netting before leaving them
for the night.
14th. Sunday. A storm of wild wind and flooding rain, the storm the
loons predicted! At breakfast my gardening brother said, “Well, my
sweet peas are all gone!” “Oh,” I cried in the greatest sympathy, “what
has happened to them?” for he had planted six pounds or more, and they
had come up finely. “Sparrows,” was his laconic reply. I flew to my
boxes on the piazza: they were safe, only through a tiny crack in the
net over one a bird had wriggled its little body, and pulled up and
flung the plants to right and left all over the steps. But my brother’s
long rows, so green last night, were bare except for broken stems and
withering leaves. Alas, it is so much trouble to cover such a large
area with netting, he thought this time he would trust to luck, or
Providence, or whatever one chooses to call it, but it is a fatal thing
to do. Now he has to plant all over again, even though I shall share my
boxes with him, and it will make his garden very late indeed. This time
he will not fail to put nets over all! I sat on the piazza sheltered
from the rain and watched the birds. Unmindful of the tempest, they
skipped gayly round the garden, over and round the steps, examined
all the tucked up boxes of Sweet Peas, wished they could get in, but
finding it out of the question gave it up and resigned themselves to
the inevitable. To and fro, here and there they went, peering into
every nook and corner, behind every leaf and stick and board and
stalk, busily pecking away and devouring something with the greatest
industry. I drew nearer to discover what it could be, and to my great
joy found it was the slugs which the rain had called forth from their
hiding-places; the birds were working the most comprehensive slaughter
among them. At that pleasing sight I forgave them on the spot all their
trespasses against me.
15th. A thick fog wrapped the world in dimness early this morning;
at eight o’clock it was rolling off and piling itself in glorious
headlands over the coast, gleaming snow white in the sun, but here
and there thin silver strips lay across distant sails and islands,
lingering as if loath to leave the earth for the sky. I took the
baskets of plants I had found necessary to dig up to give the rest
room, and paddled across to the next island in a little lapstreaked
dory, to give them to my neighbors for their flower plots. Great is the
pleasure in the giving and the taking. It was such a heavenly morning,
so blue and calm after the tumult of yesterday! Along the far-off coast
the joyous hills seemed laughing in the sunshine, and the great sea
rippled all over with smiles.
From the low shores of the islands came the singing of the birds over
the still water, with an indescribably quiet and peaceful effect, and
as I rowed into the cove of my destination, passing the coasts of the
little island called Malaga, I saw outlined against the sky the lovely
grasses already blossoming among the rocks. A kingbird sat on a bowlder
and meditated; there was no tree, so he was fain to be content with
a rock to sit on. I passed him almost near enough to touch him with
my oar, but he did not stir, not he! My errand done and the plants
distributed, I hastened back to my own dear little plot again, and up
and down all the paths I went, digging out every unwelcome root of
grass, plantain, mallow, catnip, clover, and the rest, once more raking
them clear and clean. Outside, in a bed by itself, I sunk four pots of
repotted Chrysanthemums, to be ready for the windows in early winter.
All along the piazza are the house plants waiting to be attended to,
cut back, repotted, and the soil enriched for winter blooming. Every
day I attend to them, a few at a time. I cannot spare much time from
my planting, weeding, watering, transplanting, and so forth, in the
garden, but soon they will be all done. Began to transplant a few of
the hundreds of the main body of Sweet Pea plants into the ground,
carefully covering each bed as I finished with breadths of light
mosquito netting to make them sparrow-proof. As I was working busily
I heard the sweet calling of curlews, and looking up saw six of them
wheeling overhead. Such sociable birds! They replied to my challenge
as if I had been one of themselves, and as long as their calls were
answered, lingered near, but being forgotten presently drifted off on
the wind, their clear whistle sounding fainter and fainter as they were
lost in the distance. All the rest of this day was spent in setting out
Sweet Peas, and it will take more than a whole day more to finish, for
I put them all round against the fence outside, and into every space
I can spare for them within. After tea I hunted slugs as usual, and
scattered ashes and lime, but I really feel that my friends the toads
have done me the inestimable favor of reducing their hideous numbers,
for certainly there are less than last year so far. Early in April,
as I was vigorously hoeing in a corner, I unearthed a huge toad, to
my perfect delight and satisfaction; he had lived all winter, he had
doubtless fed on slugs all the autumn. I could have kissed him on the
spot! Very carefully I placed him in the middle of a large green clump
of tender Columbine. He really wasn’t more than half awake, after his
long winter nap, but he was alive and well, and when later I went to
look after him, lo! he had crept off, perhaps to snuggle into the earth
once more for another nap, till the sun should have a little more power.
To our great joy the frogs that we imported last year are also alive.
We heard the soft rippling of their voices with the utmost pleasure;
it is a lovely liquid-sweet sound. They have not lived over a winter
here before. We feared that the vicinity of so much salt water might be
injurious to them, but this year they have survived, and perhaps they
may be established for good.
May 20th. All the past days have been filled with transplanting and the
most vigorous weeding. In these five days the Sweet Peas have grown
so tall I was obliged to go after sticks for them to-day, wheeling my
light wheelbarrow up over the hill and across the island toward the
south, where among the old ruined walls of cellars and houses, and
little, almost erased garden plots, the thick growth of Bayberry and
Elder offered me all the sticks I needed. Such a charming business was
this! So beautiful the narrow road all the way, bordered by the lovely
Shadbush in bridal white, the delicate red Cherry with flowers so like
Hawthorn as to be frequently mistaken for it, the pink Chokecherry,
the common Wild Cherry (which seems to attract to itself most of
the caterpillars in the land), all blossoming for dear life, and
among thickets of Blackberry, Raspberry, Gooseberry, Wild Currant,
Winterberry, Spirea, and I know not what, such crowds of flowers! The
last of the gay golden Erythroniums, the Dogtooth Violets, dancing in
the breeze; the large, softly colored Anemones, now nearing their end;
the banks of pearly Eyebrights; the white Violets, lowly and fragrant;
the straw-colored Uvularia; the ivory spikes of Solomon’s Seal, just
breaking into bloom, with its companion, the starry Trientalis; the
tufts of Fern in cool clefts of rocks,--of these I gathered several
clumps for my fernery in the shade of the piazza. It would take too
long to tell of all the flowers I saw, but one more I must mention.
At the upper edge of a little cove at the southwest, where the old
settlement of more than a hundred years ago was thickest, the earth was
blue with the pretty Gill-go-over-the-ground, its charming blossoms
covering the green turf and cropping out among the loose stones,--a
dear, quaint little flower in two shades of blue marked with rich
red-purple. It was too early for the Pimpernel to be in bloom, but the
pink Herb Robert was out, the smallest of all the Geranium family,
and I saw ranks of Goldenrod more than a foot high getting ready for
autumn. To tell all I saw and all I loved and rejoiced in would take
a whole day. Oh, the green and brown and golden mosses, the lovely,
lowly growths along the way, and oh, the birds that sang and the waves
that leaped and murmured along the shore! The sweet sky and the soft
clouds, the far sails, the full joy of the summer morning, who shall
tell it? I was so happy trundling home my barrow load of sticks piled
to toppling, and finally tipping it up at the garden gate! It took the
whole afternoon to stick the Peas, and I enjoyed every moment of it.
Before putting the dry brittle branches in the ground, with a small,
light hoe I went all over and through the earth about the Sweet Peas,
uprooting chickweed and clover, pigweed and dogfennel, till there
was not a weed to be seen near them. When night fell I had only just
finished this pleasant work.
21st. Weeding all day in the hot sun; hard work, but pleasant. I find
it the best way to lay two boards down near the plot I have to weed,
and on them spread a waterproof, or piece of carpet, and kneeling or
half reclining on this, get my face as close to my work as possible.
Sitting flat on these boards, I weed all within my reach, then roll up
a bit of carpet not bigger than a flat-iron holder, put it at the edge
of the space I have cleared, and lean my elbow on it; that gives me
another arm’s-length that I can reach over, and so I go on till all is
done. I move the rest for my elbow here and there as needed among the
flowers. It takes me longer to weed than most people, because I will
do it so thoroughly. It is such a pleasure and satisfaction to clear
the beautiful brown earth, smooth and soft, from these rough growths,
leaving the beautiful green Poppies and Larkspurs and Pinks and Asters,
and the rest, in undisturbed possession! Now come the potent heats that
preface summer, and everything grows and expands so fast, the process
of thinning the crowded plants must begin forthwith. Oh, for days
twice as long! Yet these approach the longest days of the year.
22d. Another glorious day of heat; the sun fairly drove me into the
shade to work among the house plants on the piazza. Hot, hot, and
bright, and outside the garden growing things begin to pine for
showers. When the sun declined toward the west in the afternoon, I
sat in the shade and from the veranda turned the hose with its fine
sprinkler all over the garden. Oh, the joy of it! The delicious scents
from earth and leaves, the glitter of drops on the young green, the
gratitude of all the plants at the refreshing bath and draught of
water! The rich red Wallflowers sent up fresh clouds of incense, the
brilliant and delicate Iceland Poppies bowed their lovely heads and
swayed with pleasure at the bright shower. But rain is greatly needed,
searching rain which shall drench the ground and reach the roots, and
give new life to everything.
[Illustration: _Hollyhocks in Late Summer_]
23d. Again hot, still, and splendid. Spent all the morning hammering
stakes down into the beds near Hollyhocks, Sunflowers, Larkspurs,
Lilies, Roses, single Dahlias, and all the tall growing things. Many
were tall enough to fasten to the stakes,--all will be, presently. One
enormous red Hollyhock grew thirteen feet high by actual measurement
before it stopped last year, in a corner near the piazza. Oh, but he
was superb! At night the lights from one window streamed through a
leafy arch of clambering vine, and illumined him as he swayed to and
fro in the wind, a stately column of beauty and grace. A black-red
comrade leaned against him and mingled its rich blossoms with his
brighter color, and near him were rose, pink, and cherry, and white
spikes of bloom, lovely to behold.
All the afternoon weeding and thinning out the plants. The large bank
sloping to the southwest outside the garden is a perfect mass of
flowers to be,--no weeds, for I have conquered them; but it is next to
impossible to pull up plants enough to give all room. Again and again I
have thinned them; now I think I must leave them to their fate and let
it be a case of survival of the fittest.
24th. Last night, after having given myself the pleasure of watering
the garden, I could not sleep for anxiety about the slugs. I seldom
water the flowers at night because the moisture calls them out, and
they have an orgy feasting on my most precious children all night long.
Before going to bed I went all over the inclosure and, alas, I found
them swarming on the Sweet Peas; baby slugs, tiny creatures covering
the tender leaves and the dry pea-sticks even, thick as grains of
sand. I was in despair, and though I knew they did not mind ashes, I
took the fine sifter and covered Peas, sticks, slugs, and all with
a thick, smothering cloud of wood ashes. Then I left them with many
misgivings and went to bed, but not to sleep, for thinking of them.
At twelve o’clock I said to myself, You know the slugs don’t care a
rap for all the ashes in the world, but the friendly toads may be kept
away by them, and who knows if such a smother of them may not kill the
precious Peas themselves? I could not bear it any longer, rose up and
donned my dressing gown, and out into the dark and dew I bore the hose,
over my shoulders coiled, to the very farthest corners of the garden,
and washed off every atom of ashes in the black midnight, and came back
and slept in peace.
These are most anxious times on account of the slugs. Now, every
morning when I rise I go at once into the garden at four o’clock and
make a business of slaughtering them till half past five, when I stop
for breakfast. If the day is pleasant they are all hidden by that
time, for they dread so the touch of the sun. But in the hoary morning
dew they delight. This is the hardest part of my gardening, and I
rejoice that not one person in a thousand has this plague of slugs
to fight. It is so difficult to destroy them; to see their countless
legions and feel so helpless before their numbers, to find one’s most
precious favorites nibbled and ragged, and everything threatened with
destruction is a trial indeed. I carry a large pepper-box filled with
air-slaked lime and shake it over them everywhere. They are so small
this year that it destroys them; they turn milky and miserably perish,
but the next morning there are just as many more to take their places.
Still I patiently persevere, carefully washing off the lime, so anxious
lest it should harm the plants, and killing by hand all the larger
monsters.
In that most charming old book, Gilbert White’s “Natural History
of Selborne,” I find he speaks of these arch enemies of mine as
“unnoticed myriads of small shell-less snails called slugs, which
silently and imperceptibly make amazing havoc in field and garden;”
adding in a note, “Farmer Young of Norton Farm says that this spring
(1777) about four acres of his wheat in one field were entirely
destroyed by the slugs, which swarmed on the blades of corn and
devoured it as fast as it sprung.”
Poor Farmer Young! I deeply sympathize with him and his long buried
trouble!