AUTUMN is the time to be getting ready for your fernery—all you who
are off in the country (or who live there), or are just getting back
from your summer vacation, with a big parcel of ferns and things which
you collected at the White Mountains, or among the Green Mountains, or
the Berkshire Hills, or at Mount Desert, or in some woods, or by some
pond, or by the sea, or somewhere, no matter where—lovely things were
around you wherever you went.
I know what you have been doing: for, have I not seen in my summer
trips for these twenty years, how you young people do; how it seems
as if you wanted to carry all the woods home with you; how, hot and
tired, but happy, you have been seen coming back to the farmhouse
or hotel where you boarded, with your arms full; how you put your
treasures safely away in the coolest, shadiest corner of the back
piazza, and asked anxiously if they would keep till you could get them
home? And when the morning of packing up came, what a stir to get them
all into the smallest possible compass; for were not the older folks
of the party all complaining because the boys had cut so many cones,
and the æsthetic grown-up daughters had such bundles of cat-tails and
sun-flowers, so that the “baggage” was already beyond all bounds of
reason!
If it should happen that you have not secured what you would like to
stock your fernery with, you can do it now: and if anybody should tell
you that those frail-looking things will not stand the journey home,
you can answer, on my authority, that they are mistaken. Just get the
roots, and you are all right. I have not much doubt that there are
ferns growing in a Western city to-day from some dry-looking roots
which a lady from New England took out with her, and after being a week
on her journey, distributed among her friends, so that the ferneries
all about the city were beautiful with them by Christmas time.
There is a good deal of vitality in roots: their hold on life is
something wonderful. Plant them, and you will hear from them, as Doctor
Franklin did from a seed or two he found in a piece of broom corn, to
which, I suppose, all the brooms in the United States may be traced.
Therefore, collect, and have patience. The way is to tear up a whole
mass of the greenery from some moist knoll or hummock, moss and all.
It will be sure to be full of things, gold-thread, bunch-berry,
partridge-berry, mitre-wort and dew-berry; and every one of them will
blossom in a fernery in winter. No knowing what will come up out of
the moss. Get also from the woods the two-leaved Solomon’s seal—you
will know it by the bunch of finely speckled berries; the Indian
cucumber root, the rattle-snake plantain, lady’s slipper, wake robin,
chick-weed, winter-green, princes’ pine, pyrola. All these and many
others will bloom there, and violets. I might make a long list of
flowers, besides nearly all kinds of ferns, and mosses. But it is well
to get any and every little delicate woods’ plant that you like; roll
them up in moss, which will keep them damp enough, and when you get
home, fit up your fernery.
But first—in accordance with the principle laid down by the famous
Mrs. Glass, in her cook-book, who says about cooking a hare, “first,
get your hare,”—you will first _get_ your fernery.
Many persons would have one quickly enough but for thinking the
expense too great. But it is not at all important that you have one of
those nice black walnut cases with the costly oval or round glass. A
home-made one is more convenient, and much cheaper.
This, which the artist has drawn from one in use, is, as you notice,
proportioned like a house with a steep roof. The frame is of hard
wood—a mere sash to hold the glass (for it is really a glass house),
so are the bottom or floor, and the base, which is about four inches
deep. A groove is cut in the sash, in which the glass is set firmly; no
putty was used, though I should suggest it as being more secure. All
the corners are dovetailed together and made sure by little brads.
[Illustration: A FERNERY.]
The roof is separate, so as to be lifted off; and when on, is kept fast
in place by means of two little corks the size of a pipe stem, which
are fastened to the pieces of wood at the bottom of the roof, and shut
into holes made for them in the strips on which it is set, so that when
closed not so much as a crack is to be seen. This is eighteen inches
long and fourteen wide, and from base to top is twenty-four inches. The
glass sides are about ten by sixteen; the ends ten by twelve; the sides
of the roof are ten by sixteen, and the triangular pieces at the ends,
ten by ten. One could be more elegantly proportioned if the roof was
not so steep. These figures are given as a guide. This is very roomy,
especially in height; but that is no disadvantage, because a tall
fern can be set in the middle and have space to spread off at will, or
some little hooks can be screwed into the ridgepole (likening it to a
house), and tiny hanging things suspended from them.
The glass is of the common window-pane kind, and was about eleven cents
a pane; eight panes were required, and the man who had them for sale
cut them to fit the sash. The wood was maple, and was hunted out of the
odds and ends in the loft of the wood-house. Any thoroughly seasoned
wood, even pine, is suitable, and the cost is not worth mentioning. The
frame should be neatly finished and joined, should be strong and firm
on account of the weight after the earth and plants are in; and before
the glass is cut, should be stained, or oiled, or painted, outside and
in. A pretty stain is made by stirring a tablespoonful of burnt umber
into a cup of vinegar, more or less, according to whether you wish the
color to be lighter or darker. Stir vigorously and put it on with a
little swab: it will dry in the course of a few hours, and then can be
varnished if you like. Five cents’ worth of umber is enough to do your
fernery, with plenty left for three or four brackets besides.
All the work should be faithfully done, for you want no shrinking
or gaping or warping afterwards. You must remember that it is to be
subjected to dampness within and dryness without. Once done well, your
fernery will last for years, and you can have something beautiful in it
from January till January comes again, a perpetual delight to all who
see it; and costing so little.
Now, an important part remains—the movable zinc tray, which must just
fill the wooden bottom, and be of the same height, but not fit so
closely that you cannot take it out when necessary. Ours cost fifty
cents, but may be made for less; any tin-man will make it.
There you have the figures. You can proportion one as you like, but
this is large enough unless you wish to set little flower pots in; but
a larger one would be heavy to move about, and instead of a fernery one
would need a Wardian case.
Now, for the fitting up. Last October we removed the roof and the tray
and washed the glass, preparatory to having everything fresh and clean
for the coming winter. The old contents were emptied, and we began
anew. The first thing was to place a layer of broken brick, and small
pebbles and gravel, on the bottom of the tray for drainage, perhaps
an inch and a half deep, over which we scattered bits of charcoal to
keep all pure. We had previously collected a great store of things
from the woods with which to stock it, taking up a whole mat of moss
with all that therein grew, and everything with a little of the woods’
mould on the roots; also we had a clump of pitcher plants from a
cranberry meadow, and some rattle-snake plantain. Altogether for our
fourteen by eighteen accommodations, I should judge that we had about
a wheel-barrow load of material to select from; but we were in the
country then.
It is always desirable to use the rich, mellow leaf mould that is
found in the woods. You can easily take up your plants with enough of
it clinging about them; and it is so loose and light it will not add
materially to the bulk or weight. Not much is needed for the fernery;
two or three inches of it only above the bed of drainage, mixed with a
little sand. In the cities it can be obtained from greenhouses. Many
of the plants would flourish if only moss was put in.
In ours we placed a good layer of such soil; and the first plant we
set out was a tall, beautiful fern which reached nearly to the roof,
for we wanted it to look pretty all at once without waiting for things
to grow. Then a pitcher-plant, purple polygala, creeping snow-berry,
lots of partridge-berry, with the scarlet berries on, and nearly all
of the wild things I have named. Then we went into the garden and dug
up lilies-of-the-valley that we were sure were going to bloom, which
is indicated by the bluntness and plumpness of the crown just above
ground (the leaves were gone), also roots of pansy and fragrant single
violet. These we put into the corners where they would have the most
light. We packed the tray full, too full, perhaps, not forgetting roots
of maiden-hair fern. We had not much faith in trailing arbutus, though
we set out a root or two; our hopes for that sweet flower we based on
the clusters of buds we gathered from the woods, and these we put in a
small tumbler of water and set among the greenery.
Then we gave our little garden under glass a thorough sprinkling, put
the roof on, and set it in the light. Occasionally we raised it and
admitted the air for a short time, but it does not answer to do this
often. It must be kept covered, watered perhaps once a month, kept in
the light and warmth.
The result to us was beyond our highest anticipations. Though the
pansies did nothing but grow tall and rank, there was always a violet
to give a friend—a delectable violet which made the room fragrant when
it was taken out; there were “many flowers” week after week; mitre-wort
bloomed, princes’ pine, gold-thread, and other little things; and
while snow yet lay on the ground, the lilies-of-the-valley blossomed.
Greatest success of all, and to our utter amazement, the pitcher-plant
flowered, maiden-hair thrived, the great fern spread off till its tips
touched the glass, the rattle-snake plantain sent up a spire of bloom,
and everything was beautiful.
I have told you now the method, the expense, and how simple a thing
it is to fit up a fernery. Another winter we shall put in tulip bulbs
and some other garden plants there may be room for. Things will bear
packing quite closely if you are careful to keep those that like the
shade in the background, and let the others have the best chance for
the light. Occasionally the fernery needs turning so the sun can reach
all; otherwise it requires but little care.