"Jonathan, let's not have a garden."
"What'll we live on if we don't?"
"Oh, of course, I don't mean that kind of a garden,--peas and potatoes
and things,-- I mean flowers. Let's not have a flower garden."
"That seems easy enough to manage," he ruminated; "the hard thing would
be to have one."
"I know. And what's the use? There are always flowers enough, all around
us, from May till October. Let's just enjoy them."
"I always have."
I looked at him to detect a possible sarcasm in the words, but his face
was innocent.
"Well, of course, so have I. But what I mean is--people when they have a
country place seem to spend such a lot of energy doing things for
themselves that nature is doing for them just over the fence. There was
Christabel Vincent last summer, grubbing over yellow lilies, or
something, and I went over into the meadow and got a lovely armful of
lilies and brought them in, and no grubbing at all."
"Perhaps grubbing was what she was after," said Jonathan.
"Well, anyway, she talked as if it was lilies."
"I don't know that that matters," he said.
Jonathan is sometimes so acute about my friends that it is almost
annoying.
* * * * *
This conversation was one of many that occurred the winter before we
took up the farm. We went up in April that year, and we planted our corn
and our potatoes and all the rest, but no flowers. That part we left to
nature, and she responded most generously. From earliest spring until
October--nay, November--we were never without flowers: brave little
white saxifrage and hepaticas, first of all, then bloodroot and arbutus,
adder's-tongue and columbine, shad-blow and dogwood, and all the beloved
throng of them, at our feet and overhead. In May the pink azalea and the
buttercups, in June the laurel and the daisies and--almost best of
all--the dear clover. In summer the deep woods gave us orchids, and the
open meadows lilies and black-eyed Susans. In September the river-banks
and the brooks glowed for us with cardinal-flower and the blue lobelia,
and then, until the frosts settled into winter, there were the fringed
gentians and the asters and the goldenrod. And still the half has not
been told. If I tried to name all that gay company, my tale would be
longer than Homer's catalogue of the ships.
In early July a friend brought me in a big bunch of sweet peas. I buried
my face in their sweetness; then, as I held them off, I sighed.
"Oh, dear!" I said.
"What's 'oh, dear'?" said Jonathan, as he took off his ankle-clips. He
had just come up from the station on his bicycle.
"Nothing. Only why do people have magenta sweet peas with red ones and
pink ones--that special pink? It's just the color of pink tooth-powder."
"You might throw away the ones you don't like."
"No, I can't do that. But why does anybody grow them? If I had sweet
peas, I'd have white ones, and pale lavender ones, and those lovely
salmon-pink ones, and maybe some pale yellow ones--"
"Sweet peas have to be planted in March," said Jonathan, as he trundled
his wheel off toward the barn.
"Of course," I called after him, "I'm not _going_ to plant any. I was
only saying _if_."
Perhaps the sweet peas began it, but I really think the whole thing
began with the phlox.
One afternoon in August I walked down the road through the woods to meet
Jonathan. As he came up to me and dismounted I held out to him a spray
of white phlox.
"Where do you suppose I found it?" I asked.
"Down by the old Talcott place," he hazarded.
"No. There is some there, but this was growing under our crab-apple
trees, right beside the house."
"Well, now, it must have been some of Aunt Deborah's. I remember hearing
Uncle Ben say she used to have her garden there; that must have been
before he started the crab orchard. Why, that phlox can't be less than
forty years old, anyway."
"Dear me!" I took back the delicate spray; "it doesn't look it."
"No. Don't you wish you could look like that when you're forty?" he
philosophized; and added, "Is there much of it?"
"Five or six roots, but there won't be many blossoms, it's so shady."
"We might move it and give it a chance."
"Let's! We'll dig it up this fall, and put it over on the south side of
the house, in that sunny open place."
When October came, we took Aunt Deborah's phlox and transplanted it to
where it could get the sunshine it had been starving for all those
years. I sat on a stump and watched Jonathan digging the holes.
"You don't suppose Henry will cut them down for weeds when they come up,
do you?" I said.
"Seems probable," said Jonathan. "You might stick in a few bulbs that'll
come up early and mark the spot."
"Oh, yes. And we could put a line of sweet alyssum along each side, to
last along after the bulbs are over."
"You can do that in the spring if you want to. I'll bring up some bulbs
to-morrow."
* * * * *
The winter passed and the spring came--sweet, tormenting.
"Jonathan," I said at luncheon one day, "I got the sweet alyssum seed
this morning.
"Sweet alyssum?" He looked blank. "What do you want sweet alyssum for?
It's a foolish flower. I thought you weren't going to have a garden,
anyway."
"I'm not; but don't you remember about the phlox? We said we'd put in
some sweet alyssum to mark it--so it wouldn't get cut down."
"The bulbs will do that, and when they're gone it will be high enough to
show."
"Well, I have the seed, and I might as well use it. It won't do any
harm."
"No. I don't believe sweet alyssum ever hurt anybody," said Jonathan.
That evening when he came in I met him in the hall. I had the florist's
catalogue in my hand. "Jonathan, it says English daisies are good for
borders."
"Borders! What do you want of borders?"
"Why, up on the farm--the phlox, you know."
"Oh, the phlox. I thought you had sweet alyssum for a border."
He took off his coat and I drew him into the study.
"Why, yes, but that was such a little package. I don't believe there
would be enough. And I thought I could try the English daisies, too, and
if one didn't do well perhaps the other would. And look what it says--
No, never mind the newspaper yet--there isn't any news--just look at
this about pansies."
"Pansies! You don't want _them_ for a border!"
"Why, no, not exactly. But, you see, the phlox won't blossom till late
August, and it says that if you plant this kind of pansies very early,
they blossom in June, and then if you cover them they live over and
blossom again the next May. And pansies are so lovely! Look at that
picture! Don't you love those French-blue ones?"
"I like pansies. I don't know about the nationalities," said Jonathan.
"Of course, if you want to bother with them, go ahead." He picked up his
paper.
"Oh, it won't be any bother. They take care of themselves. Please, your
pencil-- I'm going to mark the colors I want."
We went up soon after to look at the farm. We found it very much as we
had left it, except that there hung about it that indescribable
something we call spring. We tramped about on the spongy ground, and
sniffed the sweet air, and looked at the apple buds, and kicked up the
soft, matted maple leaves to see the grass starting underneath.
"Oh, Jonathan! Our bulbs!" I exclaimed. We hurried over to them and
lifted up the thick blanket of leaves and hay we had left over them.
"Look! A crocus!" I said.
"And here's a snowdrop! Let's take off these leaves and give them a
chance."
"Dear me!" I sighed; "isn't it wonderful? To think those hard little
bullets we put in last fall should do all this! And here's the phlox
just starting--look--"
"Oh, you can't kill phlox," said Jonathan imperturbably.
"All the better. I hate not giving people credit for things just because
they come natural."
"That is a curious sentence," said Jonathan.
"Never mind. You know what I mean. You've understood a great many more
curious ones than that. Listen, Jonathan. Why couldn't I put in my seeds
now? I brought them along."
"Why--yes--it's pretty early for anything but peas, but you can try, of
course. What are they? Sweet alyssum and pansy?"
"Yes--and I did get a few sweet peas too," I hesitated. "I thought Henry
hadn't much to do yet, and perhaps he could make a trench--you know it
needs a trench."
"Yes, I know," said Jonathan. I think he smiled. "Let's see your seeds."
"They're at the house. Come over to the south porch, where it's warm,
and we'll plan about them."
I opened the bundle and laid out the little packets with their gay
pictures indicating what the seeds within might be expected to do.
"Sweet alyssum and pansies," I said, "and here are the sweet peas."
Jonathan took them--"'Dorothy Eckford, Lady Grisel Hamilton, Gladys
Unwin, Early Dawn, White Spencer,' By George! you mean to keep Henry
busy! Here's ten ounces of peas!"
"They were so much cheaper by the ounce," I murmured.
"And--hold up! Did you know they gave you some asters? These aren't
sweet peas."
"No--I know--but I thought--you see, sweet peas are over by August, and
asters go on all through October--don't you remember what lovely ones
Christabel had?"
"Hm! But isn't the world full of asters, anyway, in September and
October, without your planting any more?" He grinned a little. "I
thought that was your idea--you said Christabel grubbed so."
"Why, yes; but asters aren't any trouble. You just put them in--"
"And weed them."
"Yes--and weed them; but I wouldn't mind that."
"But here's some larkspur!"
"Yes, but I didn't buy that," I explained, hurriedly. "Christabel sent
me that. She thought I might like some from her garden--she has such
lovely larkspurs, don't you remember? And I just brought them along."
"Yes. So I see. Is that all you've just brought along?"
"Yes--except the cosmos. The florist advised that, and I thought there
might be a place for it over by the fence. And of course we needn't use
it if we don't want to. I can give it to Mrs. Stone."
"But here's some nasturtiums!"
"Oh--I forgot about them--but I didn't buy them either. They came from
the Department of Agriculture or something. There were some carrots and
parsnips, and things like that, too, all in a big brown envelope. I knew
you had all the other things you wanted, so I just brought these. But of
course I don't have to plant _them_, either."
"But you don't like nasturtiums. You've always said they made you think
of railway stations and soldiers' homes--"
"Well, I did use to feel that way,--anchors and crosses and rock-work
on big shaved lawns,--and, besides, nasturtiums always seemed to be the
sort of flowers that people picked with short stems, and tied up in a
wad, and stuck in a blue-glass goblet, and set on a table with a red
cover on it. I did have horrible associations with nasturtiums."
"Then why in thunder do you plant them?"
"I only thought--if there was a drought this summer--you know they don't
mind drought; Millie Sutphen told me that. And she had a way of cutting
them with long stems, so they trailed, and they were really lovely. And
then--there the package _was_--I thought it wouldn't do any harm to take
it."
"Oh, you don't have to apologize," said Jonathan. "I didn't understand
your plan, that was all. I'll go and see Henry about the trench."
I sat on the sunny porch and the March wind swept by the house on each
side of me. I gloated over my seed packets. Would they come up? Of
course other people's seeds came up, but would mine? It was very
exciting. I pinched open a corner of the Lady Grisel Hamiltons and
poured some of the pretty, smooth, fawn-colored balls into my hand. Then
I opened the cosmos--what funny long thin ones! How long should I have
to wait till they began to come up? I read the directions--"Plant when
all danger from frost is past." Oh, dear! that meant May--another whole
month! Well, I would get in my sweet peas and risk my pansies and
alyssum, anyhow. And I jumped off the porch and went back to the phlox
to plan out my campaign.
* * * * *
By early May we were settled on the farm once more. My pansies and
alyssum were up--at least I believed they were up, but I spent many
minutes of each day kneeling by them and studying the physiognomy of
their cotyledons. I led Jonathan out to them one Sunday morning, and he
regarded them with indulgence if not with enthusiasm. As he stooped to
throw out a bunch of pebbles in one of the new beds I stopped him. "Oh,
don't! Those are my Mizpah stones."
"Your what!"
"Why, just some little stones to mark a place. Some of the nasturtiums
are there. I didn't know whether they were going to do anything--they
looked so like chips--and then, being sent free that way--but they are.
"How do you know? They aren't up."
"No, but they will be soon. I--why, I just thought I'd see what they
were doing."
"So you dug them up?" he probed.
"Not them--just _it_--just one. That's why I marked the place. I didn't
want to keep disturbing different ones. Now what _are_ you laughing at?
Wouldn't you have wanted to know? And you wouldn't want to dig up
different ones all the time! I don't know much about gardening, but--"
"I'm not laughing," said Jonathan. "Of course I should have wanted to
know. And it is certainly better not to dig up different ones. There!
Have I put your Mizpah back right?"
* * * * *
A few days later Jonathan wheeled into the yard and over near where I
was kneeling by the phlox. "I saw a lady-slipper bud almost out
to-day," he said.
"Did you? Look at my sweet alyssum. It's grown an inch since yesterday,"
I said. "Don't you think I could plant my cosmos and asters now?"
"Thunder!" said Jonathan; "don't you care more about the pink
lady-slipper than about your blooming little sweet alyssum?"
"Why, yes, of course. I _love_ lady-slippers. You know I do," I
protested; "only--you see--I can't explain exactly--but--it seems to
make a difference when you plant a thing yourself. And, oh, Jonathan!
Won't you _please_ come here and tell me if these are young pansies or
only plantain? I'm so afraid of pulling up the wrong thing. I do wish
somebody would make a book with pictures of all the cotyledons of all
the different plants. It's so confusing. Millie had an awful time
telling marigold from ragweed last summer. She had to break off a tip of
each leaf and taste it. Why do you just stand there looking like that?
Please come and help."
But Jonathan did not move. He stood, leaning on his wheel, regarding me
with open amusement, and possibly a shade of disapproval.
"Lord!" he finally remarked; "you've got it!"
"Got what?" I said, though I knew.
"The garden germ."
* * * * *
Yes. There was no denying it. I had it. I have it still, and there is
very little chance of my shaking it off. It is a disease that grows with
what it feeds on. Now and then, indeed, I make a feeble fight against
its inroads: I will not have another flower-bed, I will not have any
more annuals, I will have only things that live on from year to year and
take care of themselves. But--
"Alas, alas, repentance oft before
I swore--but was I sober when I swore?
And then--and then--came spring--"
and the florist's catalogues! And is any one who has once given way to
them proof against the seductions of those catalogues? Those asters!
Those larkspurs! Those foxgloves and poppies and Canterbury bells! All
that ravishing company, mine at the price of a few cents and a little
grubbing. Mine! There is the secret of it. Out in the great and
wonderful world beyond my garden, nature works her miracles constantly.
She lays her riches at my feet; they are mine for the gathering. But to
work these miracles myself,--to have my own little hoard that looks to
me for tending, for very life,--that is a joy by itself. My little
garden bed gives me something that all the luxuriance of woods and
fields can never give--not better, not so good, perhaps, but different.
Once having known the thrill of watching the first tiny shoot from a
seed that I have planted myself, once having followed it to leaf and
flower and seed again, I can never give it up.
My garden is not very big nor very beautiful. Perhaps the stretch of
rocks and grass and weeds beside the house--an expanse which not even
the wildest flight of the imagination could call a lawn--perhaps this
might be more pleasing if the garden were not there, but it is there,
and there it will stay. It means much grubbing. Just putting in seeds
and then weeding is, I find, no mere affair of rhetoric. Moreover, I am
introduced through my garden to an entirely new set of troubles:
beetles and cutworms and moles and hens and a host of marauding
creatures above ground and below, whose number and energy amaze me. And
each summer seems to add to their variety and resourcefulness. Clearly,
the pleasures of a garden are not commensurate with its pains. And yet--
But there is one kind of joy which it gives me at which even the
Scoffer--to wit, Jonathan--does not scoff. It began with Aunt Deborah's
phlox. Then came Christabel's larkspur. The next summer Mrs. Stone sent
me over some of her hardy little fall asters--"artemishy," she called
them. And Anne Stafford sent on some hollyhock seeds culled from
Emerson's garden. And Great-Aunt Sarah was dividing her peony roots, and
said I might take one. And Cousin Patty asked me if I wouldn't like some
of her mother's old-fashioned pinks. And so it goes.
And so it will go, I hope, to the end of the long day. Each year
my garden has in it more of my friends, and as I look at it I
can adopt poor Ophelia's pretty speech in a new meaning, and say,
"Larkspur--that's for remembrance; hollyhocks--that's for thoughts."
Remembrance of all those dear other gardens which I have come to know,
and in whose beauties I am coming to have a share; thoughts of all those
dear other gardeners upon whom, as upon me, the miracle of the seed has
laid a spell from which they can never escape.