side by bushes of beach plum, that, when covered with feathery white
bloom in May, before the leaves appear, gives the sandy shore the only
orchard touch it knows. Of course the flowering period is over when the
usual shore season begins, though nowadays there is no off time--people
go to shore and country when they are moved; yet the beach plum is a
picturesque bush at any time, especially when, in September, it is
loaded with the red purple fruit. In the two spaces on either side the
alley the sand is filled with massed plants that, when a little more
time has been given them for stretching and anchoring their roots, will
straightway weave a flower mat upon the sand.
Down beyond the next point, one day last autumn, Horace and Sylvia found
a plantation of our one New England cactus, the prickly pear (_Opuntia
opuntia_). We have it here and there in our rocky pasture; but in
greater heat and with better underfeeding it seemed a bit of a tropical
plain dropped on the eastern coast. Do you know the thing? The leaves
are shaped like the fans of a lobster's tail and sometimes are
several-jointed, smooth except for occasional tufts of very treacherous
spikes, and of a peculiar semitranslucent green; the half-double flowers
set on the leaf edges are three inches across and of a brilliant
sulphur-yellow, with tasselled stamens; the fruit is fleshy, somewhat
fig-shaped, and of a dark red when ripe--altogether a very decorative
plant, though extremely difficult to handle.
After surveying the plantation on all sides, the tongs used by the
oyster dredges suggested themselves to Horace, and thus grasped, the
prickly pears were safely moved and pegged in their new quarters with
long pieces of bent wire, the giant equivalents of the useful hairpins
that I recommended for pegging down your ferns.
Now the entire plot of several yards square, apparently untroubled by
the removal, is in full bloom, and has been for well-nigh a month, they
say, though the individual blossoms are but things of a day. Close by,
another yellow flower, smaller but more pickable, is just now waving,
the rock rose or frostweed, bearing two sorts of flowers: the
conspicuous yellow ones, somewhat resembling small evening primroses,
while all the ground between is covered with an humble member of the
rock rose family--the tufted beach heather with its intricate branches,
reminding one more of a club-moss than a true flowering plant. Not a
scrap of sand in the enclosure is left uncovered, and the various plants
are set closely, like the grasses and wild flowers of a meadow, the sand
pinweed that we gather, together with sea lavender, for winter bouquets
much resembling a flowering grass.
The rabbit-foot clover takes kindly to the sandy soil, and, as it
flowers from late May well into September, and holds its little furry
tails like autumn pussy-willows until freezing weather, makes a very
interesting sort of bed all by itself, and massed close to it, as if
recognizing the family relationship, is the little creeping bush clover
with its purplish flowers.
Next, set thickly in a mass representing a stout bush, comes the fleshy
beach pea with rosy purple flowers. When it straggles along according to
its sweet will, it has a poor and weedy look, but massed so that the
somewhat difficult colour is concentrated, it is very decorative, and it
serves as a trellis for the trailing wild bean, a sand lover that has a
longer flowering season.
A patch of a light lustrous purple, on closer view, proves to be a mass
of the feathered spikes of blazing star or colic-root, first cousin of
the gay-feather of the West, that sometimes grows six feet high and has
been welcomed to our gardens.
On the opposite side of the beach-plum alley, the Bradfords have made
preparations for autumn glory, such as we always drive down to the marsh
lands from Oaklands not only to see but to gather and take home. Masses
of the fleshy tufted seaside goldenrod, now just beginning to throw up
its stout flowerstalks, flank a bed of wild asters twenty feet across.
Here are gathered all the asters that either love or will tolerate dry
soil, a certain bid for their favour having been made by mixing several
barrels of stiff loam with the top sand, as an encouragement until the
roots find the hospitable mixture below.
The late purple aster (_patens_) with its broad clasping leaves, the
smooth aster (_lævis_) with its violet-blue flowers, are making good
bushes and preparing for the pageant. Here is the stiff white-heath
aster, the familiar Michaelmas daisy, that is so completely covered with
snowy flowers that the foliage is obliterated, and proves its hold upon
the affections by its long string of names,--frostweed, white rosemary,
and farewell summer being among them,--and also the white-wreath aster,
with the flowers ranged garland-wise among the rigid leaves, and the
stiff little savory-leaved aster or sand starwort with pale violet rays.
Forming a broad, irregular border about the asters are stout dwarf
bushes of the common wild rose (_humilis_), that bears its deep pink
flowers in late spring and early summer and then wears large round hips
that change slowly from green to deep glowing red, in time to make a
frame of coral beads for the asters.
Outside the hedge of bays, where a trodden pathway leads to the boat
landing, the weathered rocks, washed with soft tints blended of the
breath of sea mist and sunset rays, break through the sand. In the lee
of these, held in place by a line of stones, is a long, low bed of
large-flowered portulaca, borrowed from inland gardens, and yet so in
keeping with its surroundings as to seem a native flower of sea sands.
The fleshy leaves at a little distance suggest the form of many plants
of brackish marsh and creek edges, and even the glasswort itself. When
the day is gray, the flowers furl close and disappear, as it were, but
when the sun beats full upon the sand, a myriad upraised fleshy little
arms stretch out, each holding a coloured bowl to catch the sunbeams, as
if the heat made molten the sand of quartz and turned it into pottery in
tints of rose, yellow, amber, scarlet, and carnation striped. It was a
bold experiment, this garden in the sand, but already it is making good.
Then, too, what a refreshment to the eyes is it, when the unbroken
expanse of sky and sea before the house tires, to turn them landward
over the piece of flowers toward the cool green marshes ribboned with
the pale pink camphor-scented fleabane, the almost intangible sea
lavender, the great rose mallows and cat-tail flags of the wet ground,
the false indigo that, in the distance, reminds one of the broom of
Scottish hills, the orange-fringed orchis, pink sabbatia, purple
maritime gerardia, milkwort, the groundsel tree, that covers itself with
feathers in autumn, until, far away beyond the upland meadows, the
silver birches stand as outposts to the cool oak woods, in whose shade
the splendid yellow gerardia, or downy false foxglove, nourishes. Truly,
while the land garden excels in length of season and profusion, the
gardens of the sea appeal to the lighter fancies and add the charmed
spice of variety to out-of-door life.
One of the most interesting features of this cottage and its
surroundings is the further transplanting of Martin Cortright from his
city haunts. At Meadow's End, though he works in the garden in a
dilettante sort of way with Lavinia, takes long walks with father, and
occasionally ventures out for a day's fishing with either or both of my
men, he is still the bookworm who dives into his library upon every
opportunity and has never yet adapted his spine comfortably to the
curves of a hammock! In short he seems to love flowers historically--more
for the sake of those in the past who have loved and written of them
than for their own sake.
But here, even as I began to write to you, Mary Penrose, entrenched in a
nook among the steep rocks between the cottage and the sea, a figure
coming up the sand bar, that runs northward and at low water shows a
smooth stretch a mile in length, caught my eye. Laboriously but
persistently it came along; next I saw by the legs that it was a man, a
moment later that he was lugging a large basket and that a potato fork
protruded from under one arm, and finally that it was none other than
Martin Cortright, who had been hoeing diligently in the sand and mud for
a couple of hours, that his guests might have the most delectable of all
suppers,--steamed clams, fresh from the water, the condition alone under
which they may be eaten _sans peur et sans reproche_!
XII
THE TRANSPLANTING OF EVERGREENS
(Mary Penrose to Barbara Campbell)
_Woodridge, August 8._ Back again in our camp, we thought to pause
awhile, rest on our oars, and drift comfortably with the gentle summer
tide of things. We have transplanted all the ferns and wild herbs for
which we have room, and as a matter of course trees and shrubs must wait
until they have shed their leaves in October. That is, all the trees
that _do_ shed. The exceptions are the evergreens, of which the river
woods contain any number in the shape of hemlocks, spruces, and young
white pines, the offspring, I take it, of a plantation back of the
Windom farm, for we have not found them anywhere else.
The best authorities upon the subject of evergreens say that trees of
small size should be transplanted either in April, before they have
begun to put on their dressy spring plumes, or, if the season be not too
hot and dry, or the distance considerable, in August, after this growth
has matured, time thus being given for them to become settled in the
ground before winter.
We weighed the matter well. The _pros_ in favour of spring planting lay
in the fact that rain is very likely to be plentiful in April, and given
but half a chance, everything grows best in spring; the _cons_ being
that the spring rush is usually overpowering, that in a late season the
frost would not be fairly out of the knoll and ground by the fence,
where we need a windbreak, before garden planting time, and that during
the winter clearing that will take place in the river valley, leaf fires
may be started by the workmen that will run up the banks and menace our
treasure-trove of evergreens.
The _pros_ for August consisted mainly of the pith of a proverb and a
bit of mad Ophelia's sanity: "There is no time like the present" and "We
know what we are, but know not what we may be!"
At present we have a good horse, Larry, and plenty of time, the _con_
being, suppose we have a dry, hot autumn. The fact that we have a new
water-barrel on wheels and several long-necked water-pots is only a
partial solution of the difficulty, for the nearest well is an
old-fashioned arrangement with a sweep, located above the bank wall at
Opal Farm. This well is an extremely picturesque object in the
landscape, but as a water-producer as inadequate as the shaving-mug with
which the nervous gentleman, disturbed at his morning task, rushed out
to aid in extinguishing a fire!
Various predictions as to the weather for the month have been lavished
upon us, the first week having produced but one passing shower. Amos
Opie foresees a muggy, rainless period. Larry declares for much rain, as
it rained at new moon and again at first quarter; but, as he says, as if
to release himself from responsibility, "That's the way we read it in
Oireland, but maybe, as this is t'other side of the warld, it's all the
other way round wid rain!" Barney was noncommittal, but then his
temperament is of the kind that usually regrets whatever is.
For three or four days we remained undecided, and then _The Man from
Everywhere_ brought about a swift decision for August transplanting, by
the information that the general clearing of the woodlands would begin
November first, the time for fulfilling the contract having been
shortened by six months at the final settlement.
We covet about fifty specimen pines and hemlocks for the knoll and fully
two hundred little hemlocks for the windbreaks, so we at once began the
work and are giving two days a week to the digging and transporting and
the other four to watering. That is, Bart and Larry are doing this; I am
looking on, making suggestions as to which side of a tree should be in
front, nipping off broken twigs, and doing other equally light and
pleasant trifles.
Our system of transplanting is this: we have any number of old burlap
feed bags, which, having become frayed and past their usefulness, we
bought at the village store for a song. These Larry filled with the
soft, elastic moss that florists use, of which there is any quantity in
the low backwater meadows of the river. A good-sized tree (and we are
not moving any of more than four or five feet in height; larger ones, it
seems, are better moved in early winter with a ball of frozen earth) has
a bag to itself, the roots, with some earth, being enveloped in the
moss, the bag as securely bound about them as possible with heavy cord,
and the whole thing left to soak at the river edge while the next one is
being wrapped. Of the small hemlocks for the windbreak,--and we are
using none over two or three feet for this purpose, as we want to pinch
them in and make them stocky,--the roots of three or four will often go
into a bag.
When enough for a day's planting is thus collected, we go home, stack
them in the shade, and the next morning the resetting begins! The bags
are not opened until they are by the hole in which the trees are to be
placed, which, by the way, is always made and used after the directions
you gave us for rose planting; and I'm coming to agree with you that the
success in gardening lies more than half in the putting under ground,
and that the proper spreading and securing of roots in earth thoroughly
loosened to allow new roots to feel and find their way is one of the
secrets of what is usually termed "luck"!
This may sound like a very easy way of acquiring trees, but it sometimes
takes an hour to loosen a sturdy pine of four feet. Of course a
relentless hand that stops at nothing, with a grub-axe and spade, could
do it in fifteen minutes, but the roots would be cut or bruised and the
pulling and tugging be so violent that not a bit of earth would cleave,
and thus the fatal drying process set in almost before the digging was
completed.
Larry first loosens the soil all about the tree with a crowbar,
dislodging any binding surface stones in the meantime; then the roots
are followed to the end and secured entire when possible, a bit of
detective work more difficult than it sounds in a bank where forest
trees of old growth have knit roots with saplings for mutual protection.
Setting-out day sees a procession of three water-carriers going Indian
file up one side of the knoll and down the other. Bart declares that by
the time his vacation is over he will be sufficiently trained to become
captain of the local fire company, which consists of an antique engine,
of about the capacity of one water-barrel, and a bucket brigade.
This profuse use of water, upon the principle of imitation, has brought
about another demand for it on the premises. The state of particularly
clay-and-leaf-mouldy perspiration in which Bart finds himself these days
cries aloud for a shower-bath, nor is he or his boots and clothing in a
suitable condition for tramping through the house and turning the family
bath-tub into a trough wherein one would think flower-pots had been
washed.
With the aid of Amos Opie an oil-barrel has been trussed up like a
miniature windmill tank in the end of the camp barn, one end of which
rests on the ground, and being cellarless has an earth floor. Around the
supports of this tank is fastened an unbleached cotton curtain, and when
standing within and pulling a cord attached to an improvised spray, the
contents of the barrel descend upon Bart's person with hygienic
thoroughness, the only drawback being that twelve pails of water have to
be carried up the short ladder that leads from floor to barrel top each
time the shower is used. Bart, however, seems to enjoy the process
immensely, and Larry, by the way in which he lingers about the place and
grins, evidently has a secret desire to experiment with it himself.
Larry has been a great comfort up to now, but we both have an undefined
idea that one of his periods of "rest" is approaching. He works with
feverish haste, alternating with times of sitting and looking at the
ground, that I fear bodes no good. He also seems to take a diabolic
pleasure in tormenting Amos Opie as regards the general make-up and
pedigree of his beloved hound David.
David has human intelligence in a setting that it would be difficult to
classify for a dog-show; a melancholy bloodhound strain certainly
percolates thoroughly through him, and his long ears, dewlaps, and front
legs, tending to bow, separate him from the fox "'ounds" of Larry's
experience. To Amos Opie David is the only type of hound worthy of the
name; consequently there has been no little language upon the subject.
That is, Larry has done the talking, punctuated by contemptuous "huhs"
and sniffs from Amos, until day before yesterday. On this day David went
on a hunting trip extending from five o'clock in the afternoon until the
next morning, during which his voice, blending with two immature cries,
told that he was ranging miles of country in company with a pair of
thoroughbred fox-hound pups, owned by the postmaster, the training of
which Amos Opie was superintending, and owing to an attack of rheumatism
had delegated to David, whose reliability for this purpose could not be
overestimated according to his master's way of thinking. For a place in
some ways so near to civilization, the hills beyond the river woods
abound in fox holes, and David has conducted some good runs on his own
account, it seems; but this time alack! alack! he came limping slowly
home, footsore and bedraggled, followed by his pupils and bearing a huge
dead cat of the half-wild tribe that, born in a barn and having no
owner, takes to a prowling life in the woods.
I cannot quite appreciate the enormity of the offence, but doubtless Dr.
Russell and your husband can, as they live in a fox-hunting country. It
seems that a rabbit would have been bad enough, something however, to
be condoned,--but not a cat! Instantly Amos fixed upon Larry as the
responsible cause of the calamity,--Larry, who is so soaked in a species
of folk-lore, blended of tradition, imagination, and high spirits that,
after hearing him talk, it is easy to believe that he deals in magic by
the aid of a black cat, and unfortunately the cat brought in by David
was of this colour!
Then Amos spoke, for David's honour was as his own, and Larry heard a
pronounced Yankee's opinion, not only of all the inhabitants of the
Emerald Isle, but of one in particular! After freeing his mind, he
threatened to free his house of Larry as a lodger, this being
particularly unfortunate considering the near approach of one of that
gentleman's times of retirement.
Last night I thought the sky had again cleared, for Amos discovered that
the postmaster did not suspect the cat episode, and as Larry had no
friends in the village through which it might leak out, the old man
seemed much relieved; also, Larry apparently is not a harbourer of
grievances. Within an hour, however, a second episode has further
strained the relationship of lodger and host, and it has snapped.
Though still quite stiff in the joints, Amos came over this morning to
do some little tinkering in the barn camp, especially in strengthening
the stays of the shower-bath tank, when, as he was on his knees
fastening a brace to a post, in some inexplicable manner the string was
pulled and the contents of the entire barrel of cold well-water were
released, the first sprinkle so astonishing and bewildering poor Amos
that he remained where he was, and so received a complete drenching.
Bart and Larry were up in the woods getting the day's load of hemlocks,
and I, hearing the spluttering and groans, went to Amos's rescue as well
as I could, and together with Maria Maxwell got him to the kitchen,
where hot tea and dry clothes should have completely revived him in
spite of age. As, however, to-day, it seems, is the anniversary of a
famous illness he acquired back in '64, on his return from the Civil
War, the peculiarities of which he has not yet ceased proclaiming, he is
evidently determined to celebrate it forthwith, so he has taken to his
bed, groaning with a stitch in his side. The doctor has been telephoned,
and Maria Maxwell, as usual bursting with energy, which on this occasion
takes a form between that of a dutiful daughter and a genuine country
neighbour, has gone over to Opal Farm to tidy up a bit until the doctor
gives his decision and some native woman, agreeable to Amos's taste, can
be found to look after the interesting yet aggravating crank.
But this is not all. Amos declines to allow Larry to lodge in the house
for another night, attributing the ducking to him, in spite of the fact
that he was at least six miles away. In this both Bart and I think Amos
right, for Larry's eye had a most inquiring expression on his return,
and I detected him slipping into the old barn at the first opportunity
to see if the tank was empty, while Bart says that he has been talking
to himself in a gleeful mood all the morning, and so he has decided
that, as Larry has worked long enough to justify it, he will buy him a
prepaid passage home to his daughter and see him off personally by
to-morrow's steamer. As Amos will have none of Larry, to send the man
into village lodgings would probably hasten his downfall. I did hope to
keep him until autumn, for he has taught me not a little gardening in a
genial and irresponsible sort of way, and the rose garden is laid out in
a manner that would do credit to a trained man, Larry having the rare
combination of seeing a straight line and yet being able to turn a
graceful curve. But even if Amos had been willing to allow him to sleep
over one of his attacks, it would have been a dubious example for
Barney, and in spite of the comfort he has been I now fully realize the
limitations of so many of his race, at once witty, warm-hearted,
soothing, and impossible; it is difficult not to believe what they say,
even when you know they are lying, and this condition is equally
demoralizing both to master and man.
_August 11._ Anastasia wept behind her apron when Larry left, but Barney
assumed a cheerfulness and interest in his work that he has never shown
before. Bart says that in spite of a discrepancy of twenty-odd years he
thinks that Larry, by his fund of stories and really wonderful jig
dancing, was diverting Anastasia's thoughts, and the comfortable savings
attached, from Barney, who, though doubtless a sober man and far more
durable in many ways, is much less interesting an object for the daily
contemplation of an emotional Irishwoman.
While Bart was in town yesterday seeing Larry started on his journey,
Maria and I, with the Infant tucked between in the buggy, went for an
outing under the gentle guidance of Romeo, who through constant practice
has become the most expert standing horse in the county. I'm only afraid
that his owners on their return may not appreciate this accomplishment.
Being on what Maria calls "a hunt for antiques," we drove in the
direction of Newham village, which you know is away from railroads and
has any number of old-time farms. We were not looking for
spinning-wheels and andirons, but old-fashioned roses and peonies,
especially the early double deep crimson variety that looks like a great
Jack rose. We located a number of these in June and promised to return
for our plunder in due season. Last year I bought some peony roots in
August, and they throve so well, blooming this spring, that I think it
is the best time for moving them.