A novelty has been offered to the horticultural public of London this
spring (1880), in the shape of standard trees of Wistaria Sinensis,
raised in tubs, having heads five or six feet in diameter and covered
with clusters of bloom. The plants were raised in Rouen, France, and
sent to London for sale. It requires several years to attain plants of
good size in this style, and as a matter of profit, a strict account
would no doubt show a balance on the wrong side. In this country where
the Wistaria is "at home," it may be raised in tree-shape in the open
ground without expense, save the necessary care in pinching in and
shaping. "So completely did the plants offered in London strike the
popular taste, that there was quite a competition to become purchasers
of them, and large sums were offered by those anxious to possess them.
The general public, unaccustomed to this fine Chinese climber, looked on
with wonder at "Lilacs" of such unwanted size and beauty of
color."--_Vick's Magazine._
Mr. Vick evidently does not deem this method an improvement on the
natural graceful climber, for it reminds him of an anecdote which he
thus relates in reply to an inquirer respecting the Wistaria as a
standard.
"Once upon a time some kind of a steam cannon was invented, and a day of
trial was arranged at Portsmouth, England, to which the Lords of the
Admiralty and the Duke of Wellington were invited. After the exhibition,
which we believe was somewhat successful, opinions of its merits were
freely expressed, but the Iron Duke said nothing. When urged to give his
opinion, he replied that he was thinking--'thinking if the steam gun had
been first invented, what a grand improvement gunpowder would have
been.' If the Chinese Wistaria had been a tree, and some one could have
induced it to climb and cover our porches and arbors and old trees and
buildings, what a grand improvement it would have been."
Thoughts in My Garden.
My faultless friends, the plants and flowers,
Have only smiles for me.
When drought withholds refreshing showers,
Through hot and dreary summer hours,
They then droop silently.
When tired and worn with worldly care,
Their fragrance seems like praise,
A benediction in the air;
Pure as an unfallen angel's prayer,
Sweet'ning the saddest days.
No frowns, no pouting, no complaints,
In my bright garden fair,
A colony of sinless saints,
Whose beauty Nature's pencil paints,
Are my fair darlings there.
No inattention can awake
Envy or jealousy;
Their alabaster boxes break,
As Mary's did, and I partake
Of their rich fragrancy.
Sometimes with weary soul and sad,
I taste their sweet perfume;
And then my soul is very glad,
I feel ashamed I ever had
A hateful sense of gloom.
Flowers are the sylvan syllables,
In colors like the bow,
And wise is he who wisely spells
The blossomed words where beauty dwells,
In purple, gold and snow.
O! sacred is the use of these
Sweet gifts to mortals given.
Their colors charm, their beauties please,
And every better sense they seize,
And bear our thoughts to Heaven.