_February 29th, 1868._
I acknowledge the merits of flower-_gardening_, but a kind of
necessity has compelled me to practice flower-_farming_. I do not live
upon my little farm, on the Hudson, except for a few months in
midsummer. To keep a professional gardener befits more ample means
than mine. Yet I must have flowers; I am as set and determined to have
flowers as my farmer, Mr. Turner, is to have vegetables; and there is
a friendly quarrel on hand all the season, a kind of border warfare,
between flowers and vegetables, which shall have this spot, and which
shall secure that nook; whether in this southern slope it shall be
onions or gladioluses; whether a row of lettuce shall edge that patch,
or of asters. I think, on a calm review, that I have rather gained on
Mr. Turner. The fact is, I found that he had me at advantage, being
always on the place, and having the whole spring to himself. So I
shrewdly tampered with the man himself, and before he knew what he was
about, I had infected him with the flower mania (and this is a
disorder which I have never known cured); so that I had an ally in the
very enemy’s camp. Indeed, I begin to fear that my manager will get
ahead of me yet in skill and love of flowers!
I can see many and sufficient reasons for parterres of flowers, for
borders of mixed plants, for clumps and ribbons; but I can see no
reason for supposing that flowers grow to advantage _only_ in these
formal methods.
In a plantation of _tomatoes_, if every alternate plant in the outer
row is a _petunia_ you will find a charming effect in the red fruit of
the one and the profuse blossoming of the other; and on these outer
rows the tomatoes may be left to ripen for seed, as being more exposed
to the sun, thus adding the beauty of their rich color.
I do not know why a square plat of beets or onions may not be edged
with asters, or with balsams. Sometimes I plant a few alternate rows
of flowers with my root crops, and find that carrots and stocks,
alternated, are admirable friends. When the main crops are in, there
are always some outlying edges, some places about the walls, which
would be surely filled in with cabbages, if I did not jump at the
chance. I have great luck with tropealums, nasturtiums, and
particularly with labias, which are as easy of culture, on a farm, as
a bean. And I have a fancy that when one comes upon a heap of stones
in a corner, covered over with all varieties of tropealum, he takes
more pleasure in them than if found just where one would look for
them, in a flower-bed.
If I should lay down a rule, it would be that, in arable land, or in
shrubbery and forest, no man should have to walk more than twenty
paces to find a flower. If a lady should meet you on any acre on your
farm, you ought to be able then and there to make up for her an
acceptable bouquet.
In an unexpected way, I am like to have my rule kept for me. For, in
autumn, the stems and haulms of flowers go to the barn-yard and join
all other stuff fit for compost; and when, in the spring, it is hauled
out, I find, on every part of the farm, that stray seeds have shaken
out, and sown themselves, and produced volunteer flowers. Indeed, the
primrose family are getting too familiar; larkspurs are everywhere;
coreopsis glitters all over the fields; poppies have turned vagrants;
and the portulacca has fairly become a weed. Farms should be carried
on for profit and pleasure; and, as I fail in the former, I am
determined to make up in the latter element.
Now and then, on the outer row of Indian corn, a _convolvulus_,
climbing to the very top and full of blossoms, will cheat nothing and
enrich the eye a great deal. There is always a spot or two, amidst
field crops, where a _Ricinus sanguineus_ (castor bean) will do
bravely; and I will affirm that no fancier will be able to get past it
without stopping to look at its generous palms.
Where stone-walls prevail, what can be less expensive and what more
beautiful than to cover them with the Chinese honeysuckles, with, now
and then, the new and hardy golden-veined honeysuckle, with other
hardy sorts, easily propagated? There is also our own wild clematis,
and to this may be joined, at little expense, several of the new
varieties in this charming family, which may be obtained of
nurserymen.
If one has young evergreen trees,—say the Norway spruce,—a few of the
finer kinds of morning-glory (_Ipomeas_), planted near and suffered to
run up among the branches and peep out of the green openings, will
have a beautiful effect all summer long, and the tree will suffer no
harm, as it sometimes does when the bitter-sweet, the ampelopsis, and
other woody vines, take possession of them.
_Stumps_ are not deemed ornamental, and yet I have seen them turned to
an admirable account. If still standing on their own roots, but
decayed at the core, let them be hollowed out, deeply as may be,
filled with good soil, and flowers planted in them, nasturtiums or
petunias or the _linums_ or dwarf morning-glories. Stumps that have
been pulled up by the roots, and rolled into a corner, may be dressed
out with ferns, vines, and mosses, and a tasteful hand will array them
in such beauty that the farmer will be reluctant another season to
give them up to the axe and the stove.
Flowers peeping out of unlikely spots give a surprise of pleasure.
Therefore stick in a flower just where it would not be expected. No
matter if it “was never done before,” or if “farmers don’t do so in
these parts,” or if “flowers are a trouble, and don’t bring any
money.” They bring what money often fails to bring,—refinement and
pleasure. There is no use, my old friend under a rough coat, in making
believe that you don’t like flowers. I know that you do. Somewhere in
you is a spot, if the rubbish can be cleared away, which a flower
always touches. There is no reason why rich gentlemen should own all
the flowers. Hard-working farmers and mechanics have as much right to
them as if they lived without working.
What shall I say of the gladiolus? It is the flower for the million!
It is as easy to manage as a potato. It blossoms long, and better if
cut and carried into the house than if left out doors. Its varieties
of color are endless. It is healthy; multiplies its _corms_ rapidly,
can be kept in winter in a common cellar, if dried of a little first;
and is calculated to return as much pleasure for a small outlay as any
flower in vogue. A few dozen to start with will convince any man of
the truth of my words.
Let me dissuade you, my dear readers, from too great an addiction to
mere profit. Don’t wait for a regular garden of flowers, but stick
them in, in nooks and corners, all about the homestead.