difficulty of watering arose.
This was the time in the ideal gardens told of in my precious books
when the busy garden boy rolls his clanking watering-tank, unfurls the
sinuous hose, and from morning to night supplies the thirsting flowers.
In the Master's garden there was no lack, and his long tubes were even
emptying themselves, reckless extravagance! on the velvety lawn.
But for me, oh, lack-a-day! The ground felt like hot dust, the
seedlings drooped, and the Others told me not to pray for rain as they
were doing the opposite, lawn tennis being in full swing.
We had a rain-water tank, and in the stables water was laid on, but it
was a far cry from the stables to the garden, especially the kitchen
garden, and old Griggs was a slow mover. The watering-tank groaned its
way, but only the two most important beds got their daily draught. They
were beginning to turn yellow in an encouraging fashion, but it takes
some time for the eight inches apart to fill up and become the mass of
colour dreamt of.
Then I disorganised the domestic economy by insisting on the contents
of the household baths finding their way down to my rose bushes. At
first the housemaids liked the little jaunt, but soon there were
complaints of "'indering me getting on with my work, miss," and I began
to inspect possibilities of converging drain-pipes and establishing
receptive barrels; also I gave his Reverence small peace in those days
in my desire for a further laying on of water to the kitchen garden and
some yards of hose, but he said that these were big undertakings, he
must think, etc., and for that hot, dry summer we got no further than
thoughts.
Griggs hated me worse than ever, an unavoidable evil. We had one
pitched battle, and though it did some little good, the spirit of a
defeated foe is not one easy to work with.
In the dark winter evenings Griggs seeks his fireside as the light
fails, or even before if it suits him. Against this I have nothing to
say, but when the long days come with their need for more gardening
care, I object to the early tea-time departure.
I found my precious seedlings drooping and Griggs ready to depart for
his tea.
I love my own tea, so a fellow-feeling made me kind.
"But come back, Griggs, for some watering must be done."
"I can't come no more to-night, oi 'ave to see to things a bit up at
'ome."
"Griggs "--and my voice held dignified rebuke--"you are gardener
_here_, and these flowers are your first duty."
"There ain't no gettin' round with all them little plants wot you've
started. I did give 'em a watering two days ago!"
"Two days ago! Don't _you_ want your tea every day?"
"Maybe it'll rain soon, and that'll pull 'em round. They ain't human
critturs. Don't you fuss over them, miss. Oi knows their ways. Bless
you, I've been a gardener these forty years."
At this I rose.
And what had been the result? Would he care to have his gardening
capacity judged by the dearth that reigned at the Rectory? Did the
heavy weed crops speak well for his industry? Did the underground
interlacement of that pernicious ground-elder do him credit? Did the
roses, the jasmine, etc., etc. My pent-up indignation overflowed and
Griggs had the full benefit.
The only impression I conveyed was that "Miss Mary was takin' on in a
terrible unchristian spirit." Clerk Griggs never had a doubt of his own
uttermost fulfilment of the law. In his opinion, "young ladies should
play the pianny and leave gardening to them as knows." Griggs meant to
go home. I felt this was a decisive moment.
"You will come back and do the necessary watering," I said, "and I
shall be here to see it is done; you quite understand?"
With this I walked away, and Griggs came back. I got his Reverence to
support me, and we decided to give an extra hour's rest in the middle
of the day and insist on the watering, without which all previous
efforts are rendered, null and void.
* * * * *
A useful little book, procured for the modest sum of ninepence, gave me
a more intimate knowledge of the dwellers in my garden. It is a plain
little book, though it reads like a fairy tale, with its stories of
marriage-customs and the wind and bees and flying insects as lovers.
Straightforward and interesting reading, and to those who begin to
desire more knowledge of their plant life, highly to be recommended
is this _Story of the Plants_, by Grant Allen. For surely if you love
your flowers it will not be from your own more or less selfish point of
view that you will regard them. Their aims and objects will interest
you; their growth and evolution be of importance; and, to come round
again to one's own advantage, what is best for them must also be best
for the garden, since flowers in their full beauty is the gardener's
object, and the plants' too.
But the plants go further; they wish to end in seed. All their fine
show, their sweetness and light, is with this object in view; and
here I for one must come in, in heartless fashion, and thwart them.
My scissors in those summer days were as much employed in cutting
off dying bloom as in selecting fresh ones. Not a sweet-pea, not an
antirrhinum, not a rose must hang fading on its stem. For I must lure
my plants on to further flowering and prevent the feeling of "duty
done" and a fine set of seeds with which they would fain wind up their
summer's career. And it is a business, this chopping off of old heads.
"No strength to go that way, if you please," I said to my flowers;
"keep it all for blossoms and growing purposes, and I promise that
your seed shall not cease from the earth, in spite of your particular
thwarted efforts." When I happen to want a seed pod preserved, I mean
to label it with brilliant worsted, but my garden must have grown
indeed before that good time comes.
The seedlings which, sown in the open, were now rewarding Jim's
matutinal thinnings-out, were a comfort and encouragement. The
intensely blue cornflowers furnished many a dinner-table, and though
they did not face the wind with all the backbone desirable, I had
not staked them, they formed a very good background to the less tall
pinky-white godetias, and these, too, in July were a boon to those
Others. They last very well in water, and, if diligently cut and not
allowed to seed, they continue a fine show of bloom into the early
autumn.
The Shirley poppies were pure joy. Sunlight or moonlight they were a
feast for the eyes; but, _N.B._, only those which had been properly
thinned out and cared for. Some had escaped this process, and the
result was invariably miserable little starved plantlets, who would
have been cut as poor relations could they have been seen by their
fine, stately, well-developed, gorgeously-attired sisters in a patch of
ground that they beautified with every shade of pink, and salmon, and
white, and rose. So dainty, too, were the bright petals, like crumpled
satin, delicately gauffered at the edges; and what matter that their
day was brief, as befits such delicate beauties. There were more and
more to follow; green bud on bud hanging their small heads among the
sage-green leaves, until the time came for them too to "come out" and
reign as beauties for a space as long as a butterfly's life.
There was a chorus of praise from the Others.
"Now, why don't you grow more of those?"
"Why did you not fill the two round beds with these? They make a much
finer show!"
"Are they very difficult to grow, or very expensive? Why not more?"
"Don't they last? Won't they come again? Oh, but I would make them!"
"You shall do the thinning out and watering," said Jim, grimly, while
I tried, but quite in vain, to explain that permanence was the chief
thing needed by the two round beds, and that my yellow design would go
on.
"They aren't half so effective," the Others murmured, "but of course
you will have it your own way!"
* * * * *
The mignonette failed me; a few straggling plants and no bloom was all
that packet did for me. I thought it grew as a weed everywhere, and
my soil suits weeds! But I cannot master the mystery of what happens
to some things below ground. The anemones never gave a sign of life.
"They've rotted, that's what they've done," said Griggs, sagaciously,
as he dug the spot where they had been buried and found no trace of
anything. I intend to try again. Someone said damp had that effect on
their roots, so next time for a more open, more sunny spot; but maybe
that will prove too dry.
Those hot days of July and August! Alas and alas! how I and my flowers
suffered from the "too-dry." With the exception of my blazing yellow
beds and my nurslings for next year, which, after my interview with
Griggs, did receive a daily draught, my other flowers lifted withered
faces to a piteously sunny sky and dwindled away into little dried-up
sticks, all for the lack of water. A drop now and then is worse than
useless; it only brings their eager roots hastily to the watered
surface, and there the strong sun catches them and they are withered up
for good and all.
The sweet-pea hedge that had been a source of delight and use, and that
I had kept most diligently picked, during three days' absence converted
its blossoms into seed-pods and then gave up the ghost.
I tried to pick it back to life with the destruction of pods and a good
watering, but it was no good, and I had to turn my attention to the
other less advanced sweet-peas and try and keep them going; the heat
seemed to scorch the bloom and hurry on the pod.
The established perennials may survive the drought; later rains may
revive them, but to the poor little annuals it is good-bye for ever;
and many a zinnia, stock, lobelia, and even marigold, though it is more
hardy, had but a poor little starved life, and passed away with a tiny
drooping head.
It was heart-breaking. Another year I must not have so large a family
of these tender children. The hardy annuals which can be given
straight away to Mother Earth's care fare better, and coming quicker
to the flowering time are not so wasted. But those grown in boxes and
transplanted claim more attention, and they could not have it; though
to all water is a necessity, and they fade the sooner for its lack. The
poor salpiglosis needs other soil; heavier, damper, I suppose, and some
shade. I fear I must admire them in other people's gardens.
Griggs and the clanging tank on wheels was a poor substitute for the
"blessed rain from heaven" that falls on all alike, while his unwilling
steps could scarcely be induced to water those that lay nearest to
his hand; and I could not expect him--even I could not--to water
everywhere every day.
If I had water laid on! if I had a hose! how I would use it!
"Yes, and think of my bill," said his Reverence. I suppose this is the
way they talk of the revenue in India when the poor people are starving.
Well, well, poor folk should not have more children than they can
feed, so I must give my attention more especially to the deeper-rooted
perennials, though even they hang limp-leaved and will reward me in the
future only according to my treatment of them. It is the Law of the
Universe.
Some patches of seedlings in a neighbouring garden made all my resolves
to curtail expenditure in that direction fly in an instant.
These were Mother Earth's hardy babies; no boxes or transplanting
were needed. It was a mass of the bright-coloured heads of the annual
phlox which excited my admiration. They are more brilliant, though
smaller, than their perennial sisters, and for cutting they are quite
invaluable. They last, too, through three or four months. My garden
must have them.
Another yellow patch caught my fancy. (I have a theory yellow flowers
are hardiest; it is the primitive colour.) This was eschscholtzia,
Californian poppy in other words. These seem to me indispensable; their
grey-green leaves make the prettiest decoration.
* * * * *
In the Master's garden peace and plenty reigned. The hose played all
day long; the grass was a joy, green as perennial youth; the flowers
nodded at him in full satisfaction, and he sat and smiled at them,
"feeling good," as the Americans say.
I went home and noted the brown lawn, in which even the plantains
were beginning to turn colour, and thought of my border, and "felt
bad." Even the brilliant yellow of my two round beds, staring like
sunflowers, full among the starving, failed to comfort me.
It is always the one lamb crying in the wilderness that pulls the true
shepherd's heart away from the ninety and nine trim little sheep safe
in the fold.
* * * * *
Jim was very busy those days and more or less deserted me. One of the
Others, a mankind from Sandhurst, divided his allegiance, and holidays
and cricket absorbed him.
"One has to slack off a bit," he said, "and old Griggs can water.
I'll come on again in the autumn; there will be some work with those
tap-roots, you know."
But when a question arose of how much to the good my reign had proved,
then Jim was with me at once. Even "Sandhurst" and the grand ideas that
are a necessity of that period of development, were not allowed to be
too snubbing.
"You look at those two yellow beds," said Jim. "That's one year's work,
good. Next year we will have a bit more, up to that style. You try and
get up some weeds yourself and then you can talk."
And indeed those two yellow beds were a satisfaction; they grew and
grew until not a spare inch was left between root and root, and they
flared away gorgeously in the face of the hottest sun. I kept all dead
heads cut down, for they were to go on right to the end of October.
The antirrhinums came on bravely, too; my little straight soldiers, now
no longer so thin and leggy, but beginning to branch out, and carrying
their stiff red, white or yellow spear of flowers bolt upright in the
centre. But they were still small, and I was glad that I had secured a
quicker effect with my yellow design. They performed a gay march past
in that forlorn old border in the front, but more toward the end of the
summer, owing really to the delay in pricking them out. His Reverence
said they consoled him for the disaster of the crocuses in spring.
I bought some little plants of creeping jenny, six at threepence each,
and put them in round one of the stumps holding a group of rather
mauvy-coloured creeping geraniums. They took kindly to the position,
and yellow and mauve go excellently well together. Also I added three
plants of gypsophila to my long border. I felt the Others would
appreciate them.
I often wanted to buy ready-made flowers, and a flower shop or nursery
garden became a real danger to me; but there was the five pounds to be
thought of, or rather the few shillings which remained, and oh! the
many things that were really necessities of the first order.
In August Griggs and I, friends for the moment, took cuttings of those
geraniums whose colours, for some reason Griggs failed to fathom,
pleased me. Of course those that I least liked offered the better
cuttings, but I was inexorable and told Griggs I had other uses for
that solitary frame. We "struck" the cuttings in some big pots, six
in each. They grew easily, and for next year I shall only have the
colours I like. Then, rather in astonishment at myself for patronising
geraniums, I bought a hundred cuttings of Henry Jacoby, a good dark
red, for six shillings. I can't help coming round to the opinion that
geraniums are an excellent stand-by. A dozen pink climbing geraniums
were given me. My eye of faith already sees them growing up the
verandah and causing even the Others to say pretty things to me. During
the autumn and winter, as little cuttings they will pass their time
making root in my frame. Yellow daisies and white, in wooden boxes,
were to join them there; and, in order to be really forward with some
things, a good supply of antirrhinum and lobelia cuttings. Naturally
they will be more forward and stronger than the seedlings of February,
but I have to face the question of room.
* * * * *
There comes a time of lull in the life of a garden when, if only the
watering be seen to, it is possible for even the head gardener to take
a holiday. In August what has been done is done and cannot be altered;
and what left undone must remain so. It is too late now, and the hope
of "next year" is turned to eagerly, for "next year" is the only remedy
left.
I had been driven to "next year" quite early in the day, for all my
plants would be more established, and therefore I trusted more lavish
with bloom in their second year with me. They had done their best, I
doubted not, and to my eye the promise of growth at the roots began to
give as much satisfaction as the few blooms sent, almost tentatively,
up into their new surroundings. Ah! for the time when the blue
delphinium should be a massive background for the white lilies, and
these shine against a thick clump of red valerian; and then the eye
should catch the brilliant yellow of the tiger-lily and feel cool in
the clear purple of the Indian-pea. And then this scheme should repeat
itself, diversified with the stately hollyhock and flaring sunflower,
or the feathers of the spiræa, which should rival it in height. More
forward in the border should glow the warm-scented sweet-Williams
and the bright-headed phlox; the pure white campanula should nod its
bells, and the quaint Turk's head hold its own stiffly. Gaillardias and
gladiolas, ixias and montbresias should strike a strong-coloured note,
and clumps of Canterbury-bells, stocks, zinnias, penstemons, marigolds
and scabious should each in turn--and some take a good long turn--bring
their share of brightness; and the flowers of the past, the irises, the
bleeding heart, the columbines, the bright scarlet geum, the yellow
doronicum, should be marked by a patch of green that by diligent
growing gave hope of more beauty for the future. In this bright future
I was apt to wander and to lose sight of the rather meagre present. But
that needs must be one of the consolations of a garden.
And so, hoping all things for my garden, I went to pay visits to other
people's gardens.
One grand garden filled me with anything but envy. It was so terribly
trim, such rows of variegated geraniums, big calceolarias, featherfew
and lobelia. I determined never to treat any bed or border to edgings;
to mass even lobelia together and only break it with taller plants,
such as geraniums, of the pure good colours quite possible I found, or
salvias or fuchsias. Here was line after line, pattern after pattern;
surely they were the "goodly sights" Bacon had seen in tarts!
Grand beds of coleus and begonias there were, but these were beyond me,
savouring too much of the greenhouse, and all the flowers in the rooms
spoke of gardeners and hot-houses.
"I don't think my gardener cares much for herbaceous things," said my
hostess. "What flowers _do_ live out of doors? in this climate, I mean."
And I found out that a greenhouse gardener very seldom does care for
herbaceous things.
But another smaller garden made me envious. How the plants grew in that
blessed soil, with a little river meandering through. No difficulty
about water, and that was half the difficulty of flower cultivation
overcome.
I knew at once that all I wanted for perfect contentment was one small
stream and one small conservatory, then things should march; but I
suppose even that highly-blessed woman had a "but" in her lot.
Gardeners are so good to one another. I long for the day when I too
shall say, "Oh, I will send you some of that, wait until the autumn,"
and "You care for this? I can spare some." They must feel they are
really doing so much good in the world.
It was a proud moment when one said, "If you have Canterbury-bells to
spare, send me some; mine have failed me, they are wretched specimens,
and will never do any good."
And mine were sturdy; I knew that.
Old Lovell was another of my customers. He was to have some
sweet-Williams and some foxgloves, and I was to have two clumps of
Turk's head in exchange, and some of the many young plants surrounding
his big clump of that June joy, rosy red valerian. From my other
friends I had promises of many good things; the small perennial
sunflower, soleil d'or, some nice Michaelmas daisies, the useful pink
and white Japanese anemone, a yellow lupin and some of the white
variety. More delphiniums, too, I accepted with thankfulness, and I
felt my garden growing and growing as the kind promises flowed in.
* * * * *
So back to my own garden with eyes terribly open to its deficiencies,
"a poor thing, but mine own," at least, "mine own" for a time, and
certainly "mine own" to improve; therefore the deficiencies were not
to appal me, though they were still the most striking feature of my
garden. The yellow beds still flared, the antirrhinums still marched,
and, perhaps most consoling of all, the little plants for next year,
and those for always, were well and thriving. The summer had not passed
in vain as far as they were concerned. No, nor passed in vain even
where it only chronicled failures, for Ignoramuses must take their
share of these too, as a necessary part of their education; and how the
spring and summer had opened my eyes!
The red ash berries strewed the ground; the birds saw to that, finding
pleasure in breaking them off with a knowing jerk of the head and not
a bit from hunger; the convolvulus, nasturtium and canariensis were
flinging themselves in wild confusion; there was a kind of riot even
among the flowers and weeds in the long border. A few roses, especially
the good old "Gloire," were giving a little after-show, but a touch of
finality had come to my garden, and when a hush passed over it, broken
only by an early falling leaf, I knew autumn had come, and I scarcely
paused to say good-bye to my first summer's gardening, so eager was I
for all that autumn meant in the way of work for the future.
* * * * *
[Illustration: AUTUMN]
SEASON IV
Autumn
"Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness."
"Delicious autumn! My very soul is wedded to it, and if I were a bird I
would fly about the earth seeking the successive autumns."
So said George Eliot, and with all due reverence for her opinion, my
soul would fly in the opposite direction, seeking the spring. If the
autumn led straight on to spring I could love it more, but through its
stillness I hear the winter blast; its gorgeous colouring scarce hides
the baring boughs; day by day death lays a withering hand on flower
and tree; day by day the sun runs quicker to its golden resting-place.
Have you ever noticed how great a difference there is between the sun's
summer and winter march across the heavens? Note the tree behind which
he sinks in June and then again in November. A whole third of the
heavens separates the two; and what does that not mean to us of lack in
light and warmth? "Ah! would that the year were always May." And yet
there are days, such days of perfect beauty that the year could never
spare them. They come in early autumn, and it is as though a recording
angel passed, so sweet, so solemn is the hush, the pause, with which
Nature holds her breath and listens as she lays open her store of
harvest to the "Well done" of the voiceless blessing.
And then, the blessed rest-day over, she turns about. "To work!"
seems to be the order. "Away with these old flowers! No more need
for pod-making; wither up the annuals, cut down the perennials, stop
those busy youngsters and their growing process for a bit, shake off
the leaves, they will come in useful later on, but pile them up now
and let the children scuttle through them with happy feet, and have
a good clear-out before you go to sleep and wake up again in the
springtime--'the merry, merry springtime.' Away, you birds, and look
out for yourselves those of you who stay; get your nests ready and your
stores safely housed, my small friends of fur and feather, for my work
is now to purge and to winnow, to try and to test, and woe betide the
weaklings!" So the wind, Dame Nature's mighty broom-maiden, prepares
her best besom, and there is soon a thorough good house-cleaning, to
the great discomfort of the inhabitants.
Well, we have to put up with it; and the best plan is to do a little
of the same work on one's own account, that so, being in harmony with
Nature, one's temper is less sorely tried.
* * * * *
There is enough to be done.