winter in mild weather and commit great depredations on garden plants,
and much injure the green wheat.”
There was a happy time when such a thing as a slug was unknown on my
island, and I well remember the first that were brought here among some
Moonflowers that were imported from a distant green-house. I saw them
adhering to the outside of the flower-pots and did not kill them, never
dreaming what powers of evil they would become!
25th. Every day the garden grows more interesting, more fascinating.
Buds full of promise show themselves on the single Dahlias whose seeds
were only planted in February; on the Rose Campions, the perennial
kind, on the tall white Lilies. The Hollyhocks are thick with buds,
and rich spikes head all the boughs of the Larkspurs, and as for the
Roses, they are simply wonderful. The Tea Roses are loaded with buds;
on one of the Polyanthas that lived all winter in the ground I counted
fifty-two, and it is a tiny bush not more than a foot high. The dear
old Sweet Rocket is blossoming in every corner, sending up its grateful
perfume. Now come days of great anxiety about the Margaret Carnations
that I have so loved and watched and tended since the first of March.
They were splendid plants, full of health and strength and all ready
to bloom. Alas, I saw, a day or two ago, the leaves turning yellow.
I knew too well what that meant. There was but one thing to do. Down
on my knees I went this morning, and bringing my face close to the
ground, began pulling apart the central shoot in each plant, where
the sickly color hung its flag of distress for a signal. Down, down a
cruel length, into the very heart and core of each precious stem I tore
my reluctant way to find that abomination of which I was in search,
namely, a short fat lively white worm; for him I probed and brought
him up on the point of a pin, and having a small quantity of alcohol
at hand for the purpose, dropped him into it forthwith, for instant
and complete destruction. Over forty of these beasts did I destroy,
and left the tattered Pinks to rest and recover, if they could, poor
things, after such a terrible experience! These worms seem made for all
fragrant Pinks; as far as my experience goes they never attack anything
else. How in the world, I wonder, do they know where the Carnations
are planted and when to come for them? Such a scene of devastation as
is my pretty bed of Pinks of which I was so proud, dwarfed and yellow,
with their gnawed-off leaves strewn about all over the ground! But
they will put out side shoots and patiently strive to fulfill heaven’s
intent for them, of which they are conscious from the least root-tip to
the end of every battered leaf. There is something pathetic as well as
wonderful in the way in which these growing things of almost all kinds
meet disaster and discouragement. Should they suffer misfortune like
this,--the lopping of a limb, or the losing of buds, or any sapping
of their vitality,--if the cause is removed, they will try so hard to
repair damages, send out new shoots, make strenuous efforts to recover
the lost ground, and still perfect blossom and fruit as nature meant
they should. There is a lesson to be learned of them on which I have
often pondered.
June 3d. This has been an exciting day, for the Water Lilies I sent
for a week ago came in a mysterious damp box across the ocean foam! I
had made their tubs all ready for them, putting in the bottom of each
the “well-rotted manure,” and over this rich earth and sand mixed in
proper proportions. These tubs, or rather large, tall butter firkins,
stood ready in their places along the sunniest and most sheltered bed
in the garden. Oh, the pleasure of opening that box and finding each
unfamiliar treasure packed so carefully in wet moss, each folded in
oiled paper to keep it moist, and each labeled with its fascinating
name! The great pink Lotus of Egypt, the purple Lily of Zanzibar, and
the red one of the same sort, the golden Chromatella, the pure white
African variety and the smaller native white one, the yellow Water
Poppy and the little exquisite plant called Parrot’s Feather, that
creeps all about over the water and has the wonderful living, metallic
green of the plumage of the handsome green parrots. These, with the
flourishing Water Hyacinth I already had growing in its tub on the
steps, and the bright pink Cape Cod Lily, make ten tubs of water
plants,--a most breathlessly interesting family! And I must not forget
another tub of seedling Water-Lilies that I am watching with the most
intense interest also. It took most of the long, happy day to plant
all these in the rich wet mud and settle them in their comfortable
quarters. I laid some horseshoes I had picked up at different times,
and saved, round the roots to hold them down temporarily, while I
gently flooded the tubs with water and rejoiced to see the lovely
leaves float out on the surface fresh as if they were at home. Then
I sifted clean beach sand over the earth about them, to the depth of
an inch or more, to hold the soil down and keep the water clear, and
all was done. What delight to look forward to the watching and tending
of these new friends! I find myself wondering what enemy will attack
these, for surely something has been made for their destruction, which
I must fight! There is not a growing thing in the garden that has not
its enemies and destroyers, fortunate if it has only one. Just at this
time there is a rampant little snuff-colored spider which comes in
from the grass and fastens upon tender growths in the borders about
the house, covering the succulent leaves and stems of Wild Cucumbers
and Morning-glories, and even Nasturtiums and Cornflowers, so thickly
that the plant is not to be seen at all for them; they are like a
brown glove over every leaf, and they suck every drop of sap out of
the plant, leaving it perfectly white. They are fatal on the Sweet
Peas, of which they are especially fond. No poison known to me has the
slightest effect on them; nothing but water turned on with the hose in
floods disturbs them. This washes them away for the time being. It has
to be repeated, however, many times a day, for they recover from their
drenching and return to their work of devastation with renewed vigor.
Fortunately these do not, like the slugs, last forever; they are gone
in less than six weeks; but they keep me busy indeed while they stay.
I am obliged to spend a good deal of time just now hunting and
destroying different bugs and worms and so forth. The blue-green aphis
appears on certain precious Honeysuckle buds, and must be vigorously
syringed with fir-tree oil before he gets a foothold and spreads his
hideous legions everywhere. Also the lively worm that ties the Rose
leaves together and gobbles them up and hides in a web within them,
that I may find and crush him; and the white thrip which calls for
hellebore, on the under side of them, and many more, must be attended
to before they wax strong and bold in their villainy and defy me. A
curious plague, if I may call it so, has come upon the little garden,
in the shape of the delicious edible mushrooms, Coprinus Comatus,
which come up all over the place and with slow strength heave the
ground and my flowers into heaps, thrusting handsome long ivory-white,
umbrella-shaped heads on stems a foot long, up high above and over most
things in the beds. But these are eaten as soon as they appear, and are
not such a very great trial, though I would rather they left my dear
flowers undisturbed.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
Much thought should be given to the garden’s arrangement with regard
to economy of room, where one has but a small space to devote to it.
And where one is unfamiliar with the habits of growth of the various
plants that are to people it, a difficulty arises in making them
effective and so disposing them that they shall not interfere with
each other. For instance, in most cases tall plants should be put
back against walls and fences and so forth, with the lower-growing
varieties in the foreground. If one were to plant Verbenas and Venidium
among Sunflowers and Hollyhocks, or even among Carnation Poppies and
Cornflowers, Verbenas and Venidium would not be visible, for their
habit is to creep close to the ground, and the tall growths would
completely hide and most likely exterminate them, by shutting from them
the sun and air without which they cannot live. These low, creeping
plants are, however, very useful when one is planning for a succession
of flowers. I plant Pansies, Verbenas, Drummond’s Phlox, and so forth,
among my Pinks and Wallflowers and others of like compact habit, so
that, when the higher slender plants have done blossoming, the others,
which seldom cease flowering till frost, may still clothe the ground
with color and beauty. Of course it goes without saying that climbing
Vines should not be set where there is nothing upon which they may
climb. Indeed that would be simple cruelty--nothing more nor less.
Everything that needs it should be given a support without fail--all
the myriad lovely Vines that one may have with so little trouble, and
which seem to have been made to wreathe the dwellings of men with
freshness and beauty and grace. The long list of varieties of flowering
Clematis, so many shapes and colors, the numerous Honeysuckles, the
Wistaria, Passion-flowers, Morning-glories, Hops, the Dutchman’s
Pipe, the Cobœas, Woodbine, and many others, not counting Sweet Peas
and Nasturtiums,--these last among the most beautiful and decorative
of all,--every one is twice as valuable if given the support it
demands. In the case of Nasturtiums, however, which seem with endless
good-nature ready to adapt themselves to any conditions of existence,
except, perhaps, being expected to live in a swamp, it is not so
important that they should have something upon which to climb. A very
good way is to put them near a rock one wishes to have covered, or to
let them run down a bank upon which nothing else cares to grow. They
will clothe such places with wild and beautiful luxuriance of green
leaves and glowing flowers.
It seems strange to write a book about a little garden only fifty feet
long by fifteen wide! But then, as a friend pleasantly remarked to me,
“it extends upward,” and what it lacks in area is more than compensated
by the large joy that grows out of it and its uplifting and refreshment
of “the Spirit of Man.”
I have made a plan of this minute domain to show how it may be possible
to accomplish much within such narrow compass, and also to give an idea
of an advantageous method of grouping in a space so confined. I have
not room to experiment with rockworks and ribbon-borders and the like,
nor should I do it even if I had all the room in the world. For mine is
just a little old-fashioned garden where the flowers come together to
praise the Lord and teach all who look upon them to do likewise.
[Illustration: PLAN OF GARDEN WITH LIST OF FLOWERS
(Piazza)
1 Akebia Quinata
2 Asa Gray Nasturtiums
3 Asters
4 Asters and Lavatera
5 Bachelors’ Buttons
6 Bride Poppies
7 Clematis, white
8 Clematis, blue
9 Cleome Pungens
10 Columbine
11 Coreopsis Coronata and Cornflowers
12 Coreopsis Lanceolata
13 Crimson Phlox
14 Damask Rose
15 Echinocystus Lobata
16 Foxgloves
17 Golden Banner Coreopsis
18 Helianthus
19 Hollyhocks
20 Honeysuckles
21 Hop
22 Hugelia
23 Iceland Poppies
24 Jacqueminot, Damask, and La France Roses
25 Japan Honeysuckles
36 Japan Hop
27 Larkspur
28 Lavender
29 Lilies
30 Love-in-a-Mist
31 Margaret Pinks
32 Marigolds
33 Mignonette
34 Oriental Poppy
35 Peonies
36 Picotee Pinks
37 Poppies
38 Rose-colored Iceland Poppies
39 Rose Campion
40 Scotch Roses
41 Shirley Poppies
42 Single Dahlias
43 Snowdrops, etc.
44 Sweet Peas
45 Sweet Rocket
46 Sweet William
47 Sunflowers
48 Tall Phlox
49 Tea Roses
50 Travelers’ Joy
51 Verbenas
52 Vines
53 Violets
54 Wallflowers
55 Water Lilies
56 White Lilies
57 Wistaria
NOTE.--The garden is 50 ft. long by 15 ft. wide, and is surrounded
by a border of all sorts of mixed flowers. A bank of flowers at the
southwest corner slopes from the garden fence.]
All through the months of April and May, when the weather is not simply
impossible, I am at work in it, and also through most of June. It is
wonderful how much work one can find to do in so tiny a plot of ground.
But in the latter weeks of June there comes a time when I can begin
to take breath and rest a little from these difficult yet pleasant
labors; an interval when I may take time to consider, a morning when
I may seek the hammock in the shady piazza, and, looking across my
happy flower beds, let the sweet day sink deep into my heart. From
the flower beds I look over the island slopes to the sea, and realize
it all,--the rapture of growth, the delicious shades of green that
clothe the ground, Wild Rose, Bayberry, Spirea, Shadbush, Elder, and
many more. How beautiful they are, these grassy, rocky slopes shelving
gradually to the sea, with here and there a mass of tall, blossoming
grass softly swaying in the warm wind against the peaceful, pale blue
water! Among the grass a few ghostly dandelion tops yet linger, with
now and then a belated golden flower. How lovely is the delicacy of
the white bleached rocks, the little spaces of shallow soil exquisite
with vivid crimson Sorrel, or pearly with the brave Eyebright, all
against the soft color of the sea. What harmony of movement in all
these radiant growths just stirred by the gentle air! Here and there
a stout little bough of Chokecherry, with clustered white blossoms
tipped with pink, springing from a cleft in the rock, lights up in
sunshine, its pink more glowing for the turquoise background of the
ocean. How hot the sun blazes! The Blue-eyed Grass is quite faint
and drooping in the rich turf, but the yellow Crowfoot shines strong
and steady; no sunshine is too bright for it. In the garden the tall
Jacqueminot Rosebushes gather power from the great warmth and light,
and hold out their thick buds to absorb it and fold its splendor in
their inmost hearts. One or two of the heaviest buds begin to loosen
their crimson velvet petals and shed their delicious perfume on the
air. The Oriental Poppy glories in the heat. Among its buds, thrust
upward like solid green apples, one has burst into burning flame, each
of its broad fiery petals as large as the whole inside of my hand. In
the Iceland Poppy bed the ardent light has wooed a graceful company
of drooping buds to blow, and their cups of delicate fire, orange
and yellow, sway lightly on stems as slender as grass. In sheltered
corners the Forget-me-not spreads its cool, heaven-blue clusters; by
the fence “the Larkspurs listen” while they wait; the large purple
Pansies shrink and turn from the too brilliant gaze of the sun. Rose
Campions, Tea Roses, Mignonette, Marigolds, Coreopsis, the rows of
Sweet Peas, the broad-leaved Hollyhocks and the rest, rejoice and grow
visibly with every moment of the glorious day. Clematis and Honeysuckle
almost seem to hurry, Nasturtiums reach their shield-like leaves and
wind the stems thereof round any and every stick and string they can
touch by which to lift themselves, here and there showing their first
glowing flowers, and climbing eagerly. The long large buds of the white
Clematis, the earliest of all, are swelling visibly before my eyes,
and the buds of the early June Honeysuckle are reddening at the end of
every spray. In one corner a tall purple Columbine hangs its myriad
clustered bells; each flower has six shell-like whorls set in a circle,
colored like rich amethysts and lined with lustrous silver, white as
frost. Cornflowers like living sparks of exquisite color, rose and
azure, white and purple, twinkle all over the place, and the heavenly
procession begins in good earnest. The Grapevine smooths out its young
leaves,--they are woolly and crimson; the wind blows and shows me their
grayish-white under surfaces. I think of Browning’s tender song, the
verse,--
“The leaf buds on the vine are woolly,
I noticed that to-day,
One day more bursts them open fully,
You know the red turns gray.”
The Echinocystus plants that have sprung in thick ranks along the edge
of the beds against the piazza are fairly storming up the trellis,
having sown themselves in the autumn; they have just really begun to
take firm hold, and are climbing hand over hand, as sailors do, with
their strong green tendrils stretching out like arms and hands to right
and left, laying hold of every available thing by which to cling and
spring upward to the very eaves. There in August they form a closely
woven curtain of lush, light green, overhung with large, loose clusters
of starry white flowers having a pure, delicious fragrance like honey
and the wax of the comb.
Now come the most perfect days of the year, blue days, hot on the
continent, but heavenly here, where the cool breeze breathes round the
islands from the great expanse of whispering water. Delightful it is to
lie here and rest and realize all this beauty and rejoice in all its
joy! The distant coast-line is dim in soft mirage.
“Half lost in the liquid azure bloom of a crescent of sea,
The silent, sapphire-spangled, marriage-ring of the land.”
[Illustration: _The Bride_]
It lies so lovely, far away! At its edge the water is glassy calm, the
houses and large, glimmering piles of buildings along its whole length
show white in the hot haze; in the offing the far-off sails are half
lost in this shimmering veil; farther out there is a soft wind
blowing; little fishing-boats with their sails furled lie at anchor
between us and the land, faintly outlined against the delicate tone
of the water. All is so still! I hear a bee go blundering into the
Bachelor’s Buttons that hold up their flowers to the sun like small,
compact yellow Roses. Suddenly comes a gush of the song-sparrow’s
music, but father martin sits at his door very quiet; it is too hot
on the red roof of his little house, so he sits at its portal and
meditates while his small wife broods within, only now and then from
his pretty throat pours a low ripple of sound, melodiously content. I
am conscious of the sandpiper calling and the full tide murmuring, and
I, too, am content.
Outside the garden fence it is as if the flowers had broken their
bounds and were rushing down the sloping bank in a torrent of yellow,
where the early Artemisias and Eschscholtzias are hastening into bloom,
overflowing in a flood of gold that, lightly stirred by every breeze,
sends a satin shimmer to the sun. Eschscholtzia--it is an ugly name
for a most lovely flower. California Poppy is much better. Down into
the sweet plot I go and gather a few of these, bringing them to my
little table and sitting down before them the better to admire and
adore their beauty. In the slender green glass in which I put them
they stand clothed in their delicate splendor. One blossom I take in
a loving hand the more closely to examine it, and it breathes a glory
of color into sense and spirit which is enough to kindle the dullest
imagination. The stems and fine thread-like leaves are smooth and cool
gray-green, as if to temper the fire of the blossoms, which are smooth
also, unlike almost all other Poppies, that are crumpled past endurance
in their close green buds, and make one feel as if they could not wait
to break out of the calyx and loosen their petals to the sun, to be
soothed into even tranquillity of beauty by the touches of the air.
Every cool gray-green leaf is tipped with a tiny line of red, every
flower-bud wears a little pale-green pointed cap like an elf, and in
the early morning, when the bud is ready to blow, it pushes off the
pretty cap and unfolds all its loveliness to the sun. Nothing could
be more picturesque than this fairy cap, and nothing more charming
than to watch the blossom push it off and spread its yellow petals,
slowly rounding to the perfect cup. As I hold the flower in my hand
and think of trying to describe it, I realize how poor a creature I
am, how impotent are words in the presence of such perfection. It is
held upright upon a straight and polished stem, its petals curving
upward and outward into the cup of light, pure gold with a lustrous
satin sheen; a rich orange is painted on the gold, drawn in infinitely
fine lines to a point in the centre of the edge of each petal, so
that the effect is that of a diamond of flame in a cup of gold. It is
not enough that the powdery anthers are orange bordered with gold;
they are whirled about the very heart of the flower like a revolving
Catherine-wheel of fire. In the centre of the anthers is a shining
point of warm sea-green, a last, consummate touch which makes the
beauty of the blossom supreme. Another has the orange suffused through
the gold evenly, almost to the outer edges of the petals, which are
left in bright, light yellow with a dazzling effect. Turning the flower
and looking at it from the outside, it has no calyx, but the petals
spring from a simple pale-green disk, which must needs be edged with
sea-shell pink for the glory of God! The fresh splendor of this flower
no tongue nor pen nor brush of mortal man can fitly represent.
Who indeed shall adequately describe any one, the simplest even, of
these radiant beings? Day after day, as I watch them appear, one
variety after another, in such endless changes of delicate beauty,
I can but marvel ever more and more at the exhaustless power of the
great Inventor. Must He not enjoy the work of His hands, the manifold
perfection of these His matchless creations? Who can behold the
unfolding of each new spring and all its blossoms without feeling
the renewal of “God’s ancient rapture,” of which Browning speaks in
“Paracelsus”? In that immortal rapture, I, another of his creatures,
less obedient in fulfilling His laws of beauty than are these lovely
beings, do humbly share, reflecting it with all the powers of my spirit
and rejoicing in His work with an exceeding joy.
As the days go on toward July, the earth becomes dry and all the
flowers begin to thirst for moisture. Then from the hillside, some
warm, still evening, the sweet rain-song of the robin echoes clear, and
next day we wake to a dim morning; soft flecks of cloud bar the sun’s
way, fleecy vapors steal across the sky, the southwest wind blows
lightly, rippling the water into little waves that murmur melodiously
as they kiss the shore. In this warm gray, brooding light I am reminded
of Tennyson’s subtle description of such a daybreak:--
“When the first low matin chirp hath grown
Full quire, and morning driven her plough of pearl
Far furrowing into light the mounded rack,
Beyond the fair green field and eastern sea.”
Through the early hours of the day the mottled, pearly clouds keep
their shape, with delicious open spaces of tempered blue between;
by and by the sky’s tender fleece is half shadowed, toward noon it
melts into loose mists. Color everywhere tells against these pellucid
grays,--the gold of Lemon Lilies, the flame of Iceland Poppies, all the
sweet tints of every blossom. Presently the happy rain begins to fall,
so soft, so warm, so peaceful, the very sound of it is a pleasure;
every leaf in the patient garden, which has waited for the shower so
long, spreads itself wide to catch each crystal drop and treasure its
deep refreshment. All day it rains; at night the melody lulls us to
sleep as it patters on the roof. In the night the wind changes, and
next day brings a northeast storm again with a wild wind, but from this
the little flower plot is well protected, and I rejoice in the thorough
watering deep down among their roots which is doing all the plants
unmeasured good. Two, perhaps three days, it lasts, the gale blowing
till there is such contention of winds and waves about the little isle
as to make a ceaseless roaring of wild breakers round its shores. When
at last the tempest wears itself out, what delight there is in the
great tranquillity that follows it, what music in the soft, far murmurs
of ceasing strife in air and ocean, spent wrath that seems to breathe
yet in an undertone, half sullen, half relenting, while the broad
yellow light that lies over sea and rocks in stillness, like a quiet
smile, promises a heavenly day on the morrow.