contentedly on the small twig of a dry pea-stick near the Larkspurs.
The rosy Peas blossom about him, the Hollyhock flowers unfold in
glowing pink with lace-like edges of white; the bees hum there all day
in and out of the many flowers; the butterflies hover and waver and
wheel. When one comes too near him, up starts my beauty and chases him
away on burnished wings, away beyond the garden’s bounds, and returns
to occupy his perch in triumph,--the dry twig he has taken for his
home the whole sweet summer long. Other humming-birds haunt the place,
but he belongs there; they go and come, but he keeps to his perch and
his Larkspurs faithfully. He is so tame he never stirs from his twig
for anybody, no matter how near a person may come; he alights on my
arms and hands and hair unafraid; he rifles the flowers I hold, when I
am gathering them, and I sometimes think he is the very most charming
thing in the garden. The jealous bees and the butterflies follow the
flowers I carry also, sometimes all the way into the house. The other
day, as I sat in the piazza which the vines shade with their broad
green leaves and sweet white flowers climbing up to the eaves and over
the roof, I saw the humming-birds hovering over the whole expanse
of green, to and fro, and discovered that they were picking off and
devouring the large transparent aphides scattered, I am happy to say
but sparingly, over its surface, every little gnat and midge they
snapped up with avidity. I had fancied they lived on honey, but they
appeared to like the insects quite as well.
[Illustration: _Home of the Humming-bird_]
In the sweet silence before sunrise, standing in the garden I watch
the large round shield of the full moon slowly fading in the west from
copper to brass and then to whitest silver, throwing across a sea of
glass its long, still reflection, while the deep, pure sky takes on a
rosy warmth of color from the approaching sun. Soon an insufferable
glory burns on the edge of the eastern horizon; up rolls the great
round red orb and sets the dew twinkling and sparkling in a thousand
rainbows, sending its first rejoicing rays over the wide face of the
world. When in these fresh mornings I go into my garden before any
one is awake, I go for the time being into perfect happiness. In this
hour divinely fresh and still, the fair face of every flower salutes
me with a silent joy that fills me with infinite content; each
gives me its color, its grace, its perfume, and enriches me with the
consummation of its beauty. All the cares, perplexities, and griefs of
existence, all the burdens of life slip from my shoulders and leave me
with the heart of a little child that asks nothing beyond its present
moment of innocent bliss. These myriad beaming faces turned to mine
seem to look at me with blessing eyes. I feel the personality of
each flower, and I find myself greeting them as if they were human.
“Good-morning, beloved friends! Are all things well with you? And are
you tranquil and bright? and are you happy and beautiful?” They stand
in their peace and purity and lift themselves to my adoring gaze as if
they knew my worship,--so calm, so sweet, so delicately radiant, I lose
myself in the tranquillity of their happiness. They seem like sentient
beings, as if they knew me and loved me, not indeed as I love them, but
with almost a reliance on my sympathy and care, and a pleasure in my
delight in them. I please myself with the thought that if anything goes
wrong with them, if a vine or tender stalk droops for lack of support,
or if some insect is working them woe, or threat of harm comes to them
from any quarter, they say to each other, “Patience! She will be coming
soon, she will see our trouble, she will succor us, and all will again
be well.”
The summer life in the garden of the winged things of the air is most
charming,--the wonderful creatures that have escaped, as it were, from
the earth. The life that crawls and creeps and devours and destroys,
in the forms of slug and cutworm and all hideous shapes, is utterly
forgotten as we watch these ethereal beings, fluttering, quivering,
darting, dancing, wavering, wheeling, rejoicing aloft in merry flight.
The Larkspur spikes bend with the weight of the booming bees, the whole
blossoming space is alive with many-colored butterflies like floating
flowers, and the humming-birds are a perpetual pleasure. They are astir
even before sunrise, when the air is yet chill with the breath of the
retreating night,--there they are, vibrating with their soft humming
over the Larkspur blossoms which are themselves like exquisite azure
birds all poised for flight, or diving deep into the fragrant trumpets
of the Honeysuckle, everywhere flashing in emerald and ruby as the
sun’s first beams strike them, like the living jewels they are. Their
fearlessness is something amazing. I never shall forget the surprise
of joy that filled me when for the first time one alighted on my
sleeve and rested, as much at home as if I were a stick or a harmless
twig! Sparrows and nuthatches had often alighted on my head as I stood
musing over my flowers, perfectly still, but to have this tiny spark of
brilliant life come to anchor, as it were, on anything so earthly as
my arm was indeed a nine days’ wonder! Now it has grown to be an old
story, but it is never any less delightful.
August 18th. This morning the garden was so dry again when I sought it
at sunrise, in spite of the heavy dew, that I took the hose and turned
on the water, showering the whole place most thoroughly. When I had
done the drops clung thickly to everything, to the sprays of Sweet
Peas especially, the rough surface of their leaves and stalks catching
and holding the water more tenaciously than the smoother foliage; they
were begemmed, as it were, with so many sparkling spheres of light.
The tamest, dearest humming-bird, whose home is in the Larkspurs, was
greatly excited by this unexpected and refreshing shower, and whirred
about me, uttering continually his one fine, sweet, keen note. When
my rain-storm ceased he flew to the Sweet Peas close to his azure
bower, and sitting on a green spray already bent with the weight of
the clear drops, proceeded to take his morning bath with the most
cheerful enjoyment. He fluttered his tiny wings and ducked his head and
wagged his tail and drenched himself completely; his feathers were so
soaking wet that his little body looked no bigger than a bumble-bee;
then he flew up and lighted on the tallest pea-stick that reached over
the fence among the Larkspurs: there sitting on his favorite twig he
rapidly preened his feathers, shook himself, spread his wings and tail
and combed them with his slender beak and dried them in the broad,
bright beams that poured across the garden from the low sun. With
claws and beak he smoothed and arranged his dainty raiment, perfectly
regardless of me, his ardent admirer, standing near enough to touch him
with my finger. Then he fluttered in and out among the flowers, dipping
into every dewy chalice and feasting on his fragrant honey.
I wonder, as I muse over the charms of these most minute of feathered
creatures, how it is possible for their tiny wings to bear them over
the miles of restless and perilous brine, to find this rock with its
nest of flowers! Do they surmise the hospitality that awaits them at
the end of their long journey as they steer their dangerous way across
the wastes of the salt sea on those small, weak, quivering pinions?
Have they some subtle inkling of the tender welcome that awaits them
here? Do they guess how they will be admired and adored? I have filled
a small glass mug with sugar and water thick as honey, and fastened it
in a crotch of the pea-sticks for them to feed upon; the bees throng
to it, the ants have found it, and I hope the humming-birds will feast
there too. One morning lately, as I was busy in the garden, a little
creature brushed by me so close I thought it was a bee; turning to look
at it, I was sure it was a humming-bird, but such an atom! Its like I
had never imagined. I watched it, fascinated, as it flew here, there,
and everywhere, whirring just like a humming-bird, crazy over the
annual Larkspurs. A greenish golden sheen was reflected from the head
and back, the very color of the little bird, and it had a small, short
tail, with a band of white round its body, which seemed feathered, as
also its mottled breast. Its bright black eyes were like the bird’s,
and it hummed with its wings in precisely the same way. Its beak was
short, and as it went from flower to flower, probing for honey, I
was perfectly sure it was a new variety of humming-bird, the most
minute that was ever created. I watched it with breathless interest,
completely puzzled by it. Perfectly tame, it flew all about me and
investigated the flowers in my hand. Suddenly I discovered that it had
three pairs of legs! No bird, I said, ever had more than one, and then
I was satisfied that it must be the most marvelous moth in the world.
It was so happy and beautiful, flying about so confidingly in the
bright sunshine within reach of my hand! But I knew of some one to whom
it would be a treasure, so I threw a light veil over, caught it, and
sent it softly to sleep forever with some chloroform. It was _Ællopos
Titan_, very rare, and found in the tropics.
The dazzling white Lilies blossoming now, bright as silvery snow below
the Larkspurs, are taller than they by several feet. I wish I could in
any words paint the hues of these splendid Delphiniums; such shades of
melting blue, some light, others dark, some like the summer heaven, and
dashed across their pale azure wings with delicious rose. Now is the
garden at high tide of beauty. Sweet Peas are brilliant in all their
vivid tints; they are doing bravely, spite of the drought, because
their roots are so well shaded. They bloom so plenteously that they
can hardly be gathered, though they are cut daily. The Rose Campion
bed is a lake of delicate colors with its border of scarlet Flax.
Poppies of every tint are blazing; the Hollyhocks are splendid, with
their comrades the Sunflowers; every day the single Dahlias surprise
me with new and unexpected flowers; the Tea Rose bed is a perpetual
delight and astonishment; the purple Zanzibar Lily is blossoming in
its tub and never is without its wonderful cup afloat; the Lotus sends
up strong, long-stemmed leaves aloft, and keeps me eagerly looking for
its promised flower of radiant pink,--its leaves are a marvel with
their mystic markings held so high above the water. The Honeysuckles
are breathing out all their sweetness on the air; the Pinks are out in
spicy bloom; the Mountain Fringe drapes the doorway with cloudy green
and pale rose-color. Constellations of Marigolds and Artemisias and
Coreopsis, whole solar systems of fiery suns and stars, blossom all
over the place, and in partly shaded corners large fragrant stars of
Nicotiana shine also when twilight falls. The Japanese Sunflowers make
every spot gay where they unfold; they are hardy; when once they fairly
get a foothold in the garden, they will not be dislodged, and I for
one would never wish to dislodge them, though they spread and grow and
multiply rapidly, and take much space if left to go on undisturbed.
They have an indescribable golden atmosphere about them, because, I
suppose, of their cup-like shape; they never stretch their petals out
flat like other Sunflowers. They have a small brown central disk, and
their “ray-like florets” are of deep yellow, curved more inward than
outward. The Artemisias are in one shade of full, rich gold, in shape
like a common field Daisy; the Marigolds are in every shade of yellow,
orange, and flame, effulgent,--some with centres of velvet brown, some
with peacock green, some all gold, with exquisite gradations of color
through all their rays. “Ardent Marigolds!” sang John Keats. Ardent
indeed they are, with fervors of color that glow like the beams of day.
The dark crimson Jacqueminot Roses are almost gone, but almost every
other flower is at its best, the whole garden in blossom at once.
Dearly I love to sit in the sun upon the doorstep with a blossom in
my hand and meditate upon its details, the lavish elaboration of its
loveliness, to study every peculiar characteristic of each, and wonder
and rejoice in its miraculous existence, a feast more delicate and
satisfying than the honey the birds and bees and butterflies gather
from its heart. Over my head the Cobœa vine droops its large green and
purple bells, with many another flower beside. The Tropæolum Lucifer
thronging up the trellis on either hand truly merits the name of
Light-bearer; its scarlet velvet blooms have almost an illuminating
quality. I hold a flower of the pretty Love-in-a-mist, the quaint
Nigella, and scan its charming face. It blossoms late and long, and
is a flower of most distinguished beauty. It is star-shaped, in tints
of white, blue, and purple, with full rich stamens and anthers of
warmer red-purple, the petals on the back delicately veined in each
variety with fine lines of faint green. The rich cluster of stamens
is surrounded at the base by eight smaller inner petals in different
tints, so wonderful in detail, so ornate in decoration as to be simply
indescribable. Each large outer petal is curved and cup-shaped, yet
each has its finishing point which makes the blossom starry, and these
eight inner petals radiate from the centre within, above the larger
ones. The foliage whence it gets its old-time name, Love-in-a-mist,
is like a soft green vapor, and in the double varieties, the white
especially, runs up and mixes itself with the petals. The single
varieties are much the finest. They have a faint perfume of anise, and
they are among the quaintest and most interesting flowers I know.
I love to pore over every blossom that unfolds in the garden, no
matter what it may be, to study it and learn it by heart as far as
a poor mortal may. If one but gazes closely into a tiny flower of
the pale blue Forget-me-not, what a chapter of loveliness is there!
One sees at a glance the sweet color of the starry, compact cluster,
and perhaps will notice that the delicate buds in their cherishing
calyx are several shades of rose and lilac before they unclose, but
unless one studies it closely, how shall one know that in most cases
the _himmel-blau_ petals are distinctly heart-shaped, that round its
golden centre it wears a necklace of pearls, or so they seem, till on
looking closer one discovers that the effect is made by the fluting
of the whitened folds of each petal at the base; it looks precisely
as if it wore a string of polished beads. The tiny spot of darkness
within its inmost yellow ring holds five stamens, with dusty anthers
of paler yellow (also heart-shaped when the flower first unfolds) in
a close circle round the pistil of pale green. Unless the eyes are
young and keen a microscope only will tell this; but it is one of the
wisest things in the world to carry in one’s pocket a little magnifying
glass, for this opens so many unknown gates into the wonders and
splendors of Creation. There is such wealth of ornament, such marvelous
subtile thought spent on the smallest blossom! The “sweet and cunning
hand of Nature” is so lavish of its work, and it is all so happy, the
joy is so inexhaustible, the refreshment to the human soul so heavenly!
The fragrant fringes of the Mignonette, how surprising and curiously
beautiful they are under the little pocket microscope! What elaboration
of detail, what tempered harmonies of color, what marvels of
construction! I reach my hand for a blossom of Coreopsis Coronata
some one has let fall on the step,--what a refulgent flower! There is
something Spanish about its aspect always to me. There are eight yellow
velvet petals deeply toothed at the edges, and rich embroideries in red
about the warmer yellow of the centre. Gorgeous it is, and so is its
relative, Coreopsis Drummondii, and both have a double row of sepals,
the row nearest the corolla brown and thin and light, the outer one
much coarser and bright green. The centre of the Drummondii is more
like the wild Rudbeckia, with markings not so ornate as the Coronata,
but in a mass, and of a brighter, clearer red. All this family of
flowers, Lanceolata, Golden Banner, the deep scarlet and maroon
varieties, are superb and most decorative.
It is a great temptation to linger over the loveliness of every flower
that unfolds, but I spare my patient readers, and leave them to pursue
these fascinating researches for themselves.
I have had reward enough for all my care of the Water Lilies (even
though they had put forth only leaves, but they have blossomed well)
in the delight of the birds over the tubs of clear water on which the
mottled leaves are floating. So many charming creatures pause at them
to drink, and the song-sparrows bathe there daily. Enchanting it is to
watch their pretty ways as they hop from the tub’s edge upon a Lily-pad
which yields beneath their weight and lets them gently down, but out
of this they always flit and take their own way about it, dipping and
splashing bravely till they are thoroughly drenched, then preening and
drying themselves as they sit upon the brim, and singing their song of
sweet content when all is done.
September 23d. Now are the crickets loud in the grass and the Hawkweed
waves in pale yellow all over the island, the autumn Dandelion, starry
on its long and slender stem. But still the garden glows, and still
autumn
“Sets budding more
And still more later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For summer has o’er brimmed their clammy cells.”
Where the Hollyhocks earliest to blossom stand bereft of all save their
thick-growing, full, round seed vessels, the late Morning-glories have
wreathed and twined themselves and hung the stems with white and rose
and heaven-blue bells, and the later blooming stalks are rich with
fresh flowers. Still the Sweet Peas blossom as if their thick ranks
were ready to fly away with myriad wings of delicious pink, blue,
purple, red, and white. Poppies yet bloom, Rose Campions at their
brightest, hemmed in with the Scarlet Flax, and the stars and suns of
Marigolds blaze with a matchless glory. Single Dahlias are sumptuous
in every color, and in their prime. One Coreopsis Golden Banner is a
sight to see, like a great gold mountain heaped in the middle of the
garden. Many kinds of Helianthus make splendid the little inclosure;
Love-in-a-mist puts out flower after flower of mystic charm; the Asters
bloom in profusion of exquisite colors,--the Comet variety, which I
think is most lovely of all. The white Stocks are dazzling in their
purity, and so fragrant! Nasturtiums run riot, of course, and light
up every corner; the Phloxes glow; the Mourning Brides are fine in
their sumptuous black-red velvet; Verbenas are brilliant; Tea Roses
blossoming yet; the Giant Spider flower, _Cloeme pungens_, rises all
over the garden in rosy purple clouds. Mignonette is lavish of rich
spikes of bloom, and the Pansies never so splendid; immense smooth,
perfect flowers of every color, they never put forth such in the
summer heats. Picotee pinks are bright and sweet, but the poor little
Margarets suffered too much with the venomous carnation worm, spite of
my daily care, and are only just now sending up their buds. I shall
take them up and keep them safe in the house over the winter. In a
corner the deep blue Plumbago Lady Larpent blooms finely, the Foxgloves
are strong and tall, though they will not blossom till another year;
but the whole garden is a mass of bloom and fragrance, still haunted by
birds, bees, butterflies, and dragonflies; the humming-birds are gone,
I know not whither, not to return this year. The withering vines are
alive with many little creepers and warblers and flycatchers; indeed,
the island is full of distinguished bird-strangers on their way south.
Scores of golden woodpeckers, or flickers, or yellow-hammers (they have
dozens of striking names) are here, and just now two great ospreys
perch on the vane above the highest ridge-pole, and soar and perch
again, uttering strange, harsh cries. This morning a large flock of
wild geese flew over toward the south, so low we could see the colors
and the markings of their plumage. The familiar curlews call sweetly
as in spring. Outside the garden this tranquil morning the soft green
turf that slopes smoothly to the sea in front is shaggy with the thick
dew from which the yet low sun strikes a thousand broken rainbows.
The clumps of wild Roses glow with their red haws in the full light;
the Elder bushes are laden with clusters of purple berries; Goldenrod
and wild Asters bloom, and a touch of fire begins to light up the
Huckleberry bushes, “Autumn laying here and there a fiery finger on the
leaves.” The gray rocks show so fair in the changing lights, and all
the dear island with its sights and sounds is set in the pale light
summer-blue of a smiling sea as if it were June, with hardly a wave
to break its happy calm. Round the horizon a band of haze, the same
ashes-of-roses color as that which makes lovely the skies of May,
holds the fair world in a light embrace for this one day; a few white
clouds are losing themselves in the pure blue above; a few sails gleam
afar. Though the tide is full, it makes no murmur; I hear only the
drowsy bees in the Hollyhocks, the young fledgling song-sparrows trying
their voices, learning the sweet song their parents are pouring at
intervals on the quiet air, and the chirp and twitter of other birds,
birds of passage, with finch and thrush, nuthatch and late robin, the
whistle of a whitethroat, the clanking jar of the kingfisher that
perches on the mast of the faithful little tug Pinafore (so many years
our only link with the mainland in winter), as she lies at her wharf in
the upper cove, and shows his handsome blue and gray plumage and white
collar glittering in the sun. A fisherman draws his nets in a shining
white skiff, but he makes no sound that I can hear. The season is so
divinely tranquil and sweet, all things are so beautiful in and about
the little isle, from the glittering seal that emerges from the waves
to sun himself sometimes on the seaweed-covered rocks, to the smallest
flower that blossoms in my garden; from the wonderful jelly-fish
that spreads its large diaphanous cup, expanding and contracting as
it swims, and colored like a great melting opal in the pale-green,
translucent water, to the bright-eyed bats that flitter at dusk when
the evening star is sparkling above the rich red of the sunset sky.
And that reminds me that all summer a white bat has skittered ghostly
with its dark companions, as soon as twilight fell, about the place.
Of a white bat never before have I heard, but all kinds of strange and
remarkable creatures find their way here, and I am surprised at nothing.
Once more the weird laughter of the loons comes to my ear, the distance
lends it a musical, melancholy sound. From a dangerous ledge off the
lighthouse island floats in on the still air the gentle tolling of a
warning bell as it swings on its rocking buoy; it might be tolling for
the passing of summer and sweet weather with that persistent, pensive
chime.
And so the ripe year wanes. From turfy slopes afar the breeze brings
delicious, pungent, spicy odors from the wild Everlasting flowers, and
the mushrooms are pearly in the grass. I gather the seed-pods in the
garden beds, sharing their bounty with the birds I love so well, for
there are enough and to spare for us all. Soon will set in the fitful
weather, with fierce gales and sullen skies and frosty air, and it will
be time to tuck up safely my Roses and Lilies and the rest for their
long winter sleep beneath the snow, where I never forget them, but ever
dream of their wakening in happy summers yet to be.
[Illustration: _Sunset and the Pinafore_]
=Transcriber’s Notes=
Perceived typographical errors have been silently corrected.
Illustrations have been moved nearer to the text to which they refer.
As a result, the page numbers listed in the illustrations table may be
incorrect.
Inconsistencies in hyphenation and compound words have been maintained
as printed.