[Illustration: THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER
VOL. XX.—NO. 1020.] JULY 15, 1899. [PRICE ONE PENNY.]
A LESSON IN LOVE.
BY FREDERICK LANGBRIDGE.
[Illustration]
_All rights reserved._]
She was like the hawthorn snow—
Like a furry kitten—
Like a cherry’s melting glow
Ere a beak hath bitten.
She was laugh and rosy pout,
Beam and dew together;
Green was all the vale about—
It was April weather.
“Do, do, do’e, do!”
Hark, the dove is cooing!
All the sky is tender blue,
All the world is wooing.
Little sunbeams kissed her face
Every time they spied her:
“O to take a sunbeam’s place!”
Mused the boy beside her.
He would die to kiss her shoe,
Wrought of fairy leather;
And he did as lovers do—
Talked about the weather.
“Do, do, do’e, do!”
Hark, the dove is cooing!
All the sky is tender blue,
All the world is wooing.
Daisy let her lashes fall—
All the day was darkling:
Yet beneath their fringèd pall
Mirthful eyes were sparkling.
From the poplar overhead
Fluttered down a feather:
“Hear the doves,” she meekly said,
“Talking of the weather!”
“Do, do, do’e, do!”
All the doves are cooing!
Fell the boy a-pleading too—
Happy was the wooing.
THE HOUSE WITH THE VERANDAH.
BY ISABELLA FYVIE MAYO, Author of “Other People’s Stairs,” “Her Object
in Life,” etc.
CHAPTER XVI.
A GLINT OF SUNSHINE.
“Mr. Black,” said Lucy, speaking rather suddenly after her pause, “Miss
Latimer and I are keeping house together just now, and we are hopeful
of securing the services of a highly respectable elderly woman, who
will keep things neat and punctual. Would you care to come and live
here for the present, paying me precisely what you have paid Mrs. Mott?”
“Oh, Mrs. Challoner,” cried the lad, “how can you propose such a
delightful thing! It is far too good to be true! To come to a house
like this, so near the office too, and your home! It would be a real
kindness in you to do such a thing: but it would not be fair—you
oughtn’t to think of it!”
“Mr. Black,” said Lucy, “I think it may suit you very well indeed;
but the kindness and the service will not be all on my side. In the
event of all manner of evil chances—burglaries or chimney fires, for
instance,” she interpolated with a smile, “we shall have a reliable and
friendly house-mate. See how useful you were to me, and how you kept up
our spirits on that terrible Christmas Day! But most especially, Mr.
Black, there will be somebody else besides me for Hughie to talk to,
and perhaps play with sometimes.” Her lip trembled as she spoke. It was
hard to think she herself could not suffice for her own child. But she
was too true a mother to limit her little boy’s enjoyments to her own
failing powers, no longer equal to provide them.
“I come home so tired sometimes,” she said, “that I fear I may put a
damper on Hugh’s prattle, or fail him in his romps. Miss Latimer, too,
is very tired, and she is growing old. It would be such a comfort to
feel I had a young friend’s help to fall back upon at a pinch. It might
not happen often. It may not happen at all, because it will be such a
restful relief to know there is somebody to fall back on. I shall take
no mean advantage of your presence in this matter,” she added, with an
April smile. “I think you may trust me for that!”
“Oh, Mrs. Challoner,” said Tom, “that’s just what a fellow misses when
he isn’t at home; there’s nobody expects anything from him, and he gets
like a working and feeding and eating machine. I’m sure I’ll be only
too delighted to be of any use I can. As for playing with Hugh, we’ll
have drill and all sorts of larks. And he can go for a run with me in
the evenings, whenever you don’t want to walk! To think of getting
into a home such as this! How thankful mother will be! She’s beginning
to worry about the matter, for though I’ve made light of it to her, she
seemed to guess how it would be.”
So it was settled. Then Clementina Gillespie duly kept the appointment
Mrs. Challoner made with her. Her appearance well supported her
introduction by Mrs. Bray’s faithful Rachel. Certainly she had not
the sonsie charm of the delusive Mrs. Morison. Quite the reverse.
Clementina’s face had no resemblance to a winter apple lying in the
frost. She was pale and thin, almost cadaverous-looking, with a
well-marked aquiline nose and a long jaw. In place of Mrs. Morison’s
white frills and cosy wraps, she was clad in what she called her
“mournings,” without a dash of white about her. Lucy at once noticed
the soft Highland voice, with its strange Celtic wailing. But
Clementina Gillespie’s manner and appearance were alike “superior.”
Indeed, there was a kind of severe, decayed high-breeding and elegance
about her.
“Four people instead of three, ma’am,” she said, when Lucy told her
that her household was to be joined by a youth of seventeen. “It will
make no differ to me, whatever. I shall have nothing to do but to try
to do my best for you all. And, indeed, the young gentleman will be a
blessing and a safeguard in the house, for I do think this Babylon has
terrible risks for a household of lone women.”
“There is not so much danger as people from country places are apt
to imagine,” Lucy hastened to reassure her, fearful lest terrors of
“Babylon” should drive her back to her native fastnesses. “The young
gentleman will sleep in the little room behind the dining-room, Miss
Latimer, I and my little boy are on the first floor, and your bedroom
is in the attic, so you see burglars will have to pass us all before
they can get to you,” she added playfully.
Clementina Gillespie did not smile. “They might come in by the roof,”
she said. “I hear they often do. What is fated will happen. But I am
not afraid, whatever.”
“Of course not,” Lucy replied. “If you have lived in a lonely house on
a hillside, you are sure to be a brave woman. It must be rather eerie
in such places on wild, dark, winter nights.”
“The winds and the darkness are the servants of the Almighty,” returned
the Highland woman. “But wherever there be peoples, there be bad
peoples.”
“Ay, but good ones also,” said Lucy. “And all people are in God’s hand,
as well as all forces of nature.”
Clementina Gillespie did not answer, and Lucy somehow felt that she did
not quite agree. It struck her, however, that conversation having taken
such a turn was a sufficient proof that this person was on a different
intellectual level from all the other servants she had seen lately.
It was equally clear that if Clementina were never to be more cheerful
than she was at present, she might be a little depressing. Yet Lucy
recollected that she had come from a father’s grave and a broken-up
home, and was a stranger in surroundings utterly alien to her previous
ways and thoughts. Besides there would be Tom to keep the house alive
with mirth and laughter.
Lucy was not sorry to be able to ask Jane Smith whether it would
put her to any inconvenience to leave before her “notice month” had
expired, or whether she would like to do so. Of course, in either case
she would get her wage the same, but badly as the girl had behaved,
Lucy was reluctant to evict her if the home was of any importance to
her.
“Oh, no, mum, I’ll go to-morrow if you like, mum,” was Jane’s answer.
“I’ve got a place waiting for me the minute you can do without me.
They’ll be glad to have me so soon.”
Lucy allowed herself to ask no question then. Nobody had inquired about
Jane’s character. But if she had taken a place in the country it might
be in her own village, and might have been secured by some other line
of introduction. But when the day of departure came, Lucy felt it to
be her duty as a mistress to know where the girl was going. So she
inquired gently—
“Have you far to go, Jane?”
“No, mum,” was the curt answer, with no information vouchsafed.
“Shall you want a cab? Or are your boxes to be called for by the
railway people?” Lucy persisted.
“I don’t want no cab, mum. A friend of mine’s coming to give me a hand.
You needn’t trouble about me, mum.”
Lucy and Hugh were seated at their tea, when the black-bearded man came
whistling up the street and descended the area steps. Jane was waiting
for him. One or two loud laughs were heard, followed by bumping sounds.
He had laden himself with Jane’s big trunk, and she followed with a tin
box and a brown paper parcel. She had not relented, nor come to the
parlour even for a civil “Good evening.” As she followed her trunk and
its bearer, she turned and looked in at the dining-room window with a
mocking smile.
The group crossed the street, but paused a few yards lower down. There
was a house whose door was open, and there they went in. That was where
Jane had found a place! That was the “country situation” in favour of
which she had given her abrupt notice! It was Mrs. Challoner’s own
neighbours who had received her servant without the slightest reference
to her. Lucy felt stung. She knew nothing of these people, except
that their name was Marvel, and that the family seemed to consist
of father, mother, and two or three daughters. She had constantly
seen them going out, in evening dress, in cabs. But how discourteous
was their present action! If, as it seemed, they had made up their
minds to take Jane under any circumstances, they might at least have
made formal recognition of her last employer’s existence. The only
inference Lucy could draw was that her late servant had managed to put
her so thoroughly in the wrong that the Marvels believed hers to be
no standard to which they need refer, and herself a person to whom no
civility was due.
It vexed Lucy to find how this thought hurt her. She knew that, in
ordinary parlance, she “ought to be above feeling such things.” Once
upon a time she would have laughed at such a matter as affecting
herself, though she might have recognised its significance socially.
She could not understand her greater weakness now. She said to herself
that often in her life she had found pleasure in setting herself
harder tasks than any she was now accomplishing; for she had taken
youth’s athletic joy in pedestrian feats and in working against time.
She was still unable to realise that it is one thing to court fatigue
and excitement with unimpaired vigour and high-strung nerves, and
quite another matter to accept these when one is already worn out
with anxieties and fears. Also that it is one thing to live even the
most laborious days in at atmosphere of love and appreciation, and
another to toil in so much risk of carping and misunderstanding that
one is thankful if one can but escape notice altogether. There is
repose and refreshment beforehand in the very consciousness that there
exists somebody who will say presently, “You must rest; you must have
a holiday;” and who possesses both the will and the power to enforce
the words, just as we often feel so much assurance in an outstretched
helping hand, that we can jump safely, without availing ourself of its
help.
Fond mother Lucy could not be expected to understand that there
had been a perpetual strain in having for so long had no household
companionship but that of her little laddie. If it is tiring to
stretch ever upwards to minds above our own, speaking of things we
do not understand, and in a language we scarcely know, it is equally
exhausting to the mind to be for ever stooping, and never able fully to
express its deepest thoughts and feelings.
There was a strain, too, in Lucy’s terror lest Hugh should lack
something in being thrown wholly upon her failing resources; she would
not rest if she thought he wanted a game; she would not even relapse
into brief silences such as she often craved. No, she had goaded
herself on to chatter, and make fun, and tell stories!
Then there had been nobody to remember and provide the little
dainties—the pleasant table-surprises which do so much to stimulate a
failing appetite. Until Miss Latimer had come to stay, all that Lucy
cared for was that Hugh should get his milk, and his puddings, and his
fruit. And somehow she herself turned from all these. And there was
nothing tempting in their stead.
Also Lucy had started on her new laborious, lonely life after the agony
of Charlie’s illness and the supreme effort made for his departure. She
had been at the very bottom of her physical powers and nervous energy.
For six months she had been steadily giving out and taking nothing in;
nothing but nameless little worries had filled in the interstices of
work and anxiety.
Looking in her glass, she could see her face was thin and wan; she
noticed one or two silver threads in her hair. Anybody else looking
so, she would know to be ill, but she would not own any breakdown in
herself. Ill! Was not her task already half accomplished, and had not
Charlie’s journey prospered beyond their hopes?
If only she had been able to enjoy one week of the bracing breezes off
Deal, and of the wholesome presence of Mrs. May! If only the Brands’
house had been one where she was sure to find hearty welcome, and where
she could have spoken out all the imaginings and horrors that began
to haunt her. But from nobody in the world was it more necessary to
hide her trembling spirits and collapsing forces than from her sister
Florence, who would have seen in them only an occasion for criticism
and censure, and for counsels for whose carrying out she would offer no
furtherance.
It was at this time that Lucy first had a dream—which she often had
afterwards—and which, worse still, became a sort of waking vision,
which would open before her if ever she dared to remain for one moment
without active occupation for brain or hand.
In that sleeping dream, and in that waking “vision,” she saw herself
walking on a dreary road, between a dead wall and an open wold. Night
was falling fast; wind and rain were beating upon her; her limbs were
failing, and still she struggled on, and as she went, she seemed to
wail, “Alone! Alone! Alone!”
The dream always broke off there; the vision went no further. She never
knew how it ended.
Two days after Jane Smith’s exit and Clementina’s in-coming, Tom Black
arrived. Miss Latimer and Lucy welcomed his cheery presence. Clementina
certainly seemed highly respectable, and set about her work as one
who wished to do her duty conscientiously. But her very presence was
depressing. Her necessary sentences always ended with a sigh, and the
depth of her mourning-raiment was never alleviated while she went about
her household tasks. Indeed, one could scarcely fancy her in a cheerful
lilac print. Of course, she had not worn caps on her father’s croft,
and Lucy did not dream of suggesting them to her, though she could not
help feeling that it would have been a joyful relief to see a white
lace butterfly crowning the smooth black hair which seemed as much in
mourning as all the rest of Clementina.
The only little personalities which Clementina contributed to the
kitchen furniture were three memorial cards: one yellow and almost
undecipherable with age, the other in commemoration of the piper, Niel
Gillespie, the friend of Rachel’s dead lover; the newest, a tribute
to the recently deceased father; also she possessed a piece of quaint
and heavy pottery, the figures of two children kneeling beside a grave
under a weeping willow, and a dim old print, “The Death of Abel,” in a
thick black frame.
Tom brought quite a different order of things into the house. The
pictures he hung up in his bedroom were of Skye terriers hopelessly
watching butterflies, kittens playing with a ball, a group of
cricketers on the green of his native place. He had his mother’s
portrait, too, set up in a dainty little frame, on which he had
evidently lavished some pocket-money. He brought it into the
dining-room to show Lucy, and Lucy, with one moment’s reflection, asked
him whether he would not like to keep it there, where he would pass his
waking hours. “Oh, yes, certainly, Tom would like it, only wouldn’t
Mrs. Challoner feel——” but while he was yet speaking, Lucy had taken it
from his hand, and had found room for it on the mantelshelf. Her own
father’s portrait and Charlie’s were there already. There had been one
of herself and little Hugh, but her husband had taken that away with
him. Lucy slipped Mrs. Black’s picture into the empty place. Clementina
crooned eerie Gaelic songs in the kitchen. Tom went about the house
singing—
“For a-hunting we will go!”
It is, perhaps, needless to say in which song Hugh learned to join.
Indeed, the oddest thing about Clementina was that Hugh did not seem to
like her—no, not though she always sent up a special little pie-cake
for him whenever there was a pie, and though if her face ever wore
a smile, that smile was put on for him. Alas, little Hugh had been
so fond of the ill-starred Jessie Morison! It seemed a pity that
such proven moral instability should have charms which this manifold
respectability had not!
Lucy had not seen or heard from the Brands for some time. Such silences
were not unusual between the two households, unless something special
was going forward. Lucy knew that her sister had been paying some
country-house visits, and felt sure she should hear from her when she
came home to make her preparations for the annual family migration to
the seaside.
The summer holidays began at the Institute. Of course, it was
impossible for Lucy or Miss Latimer to think of leaving home when they
had just received a strange servant and a guest. Still, the holidays
meant considerable relaxation. Hugh had his holidays, too, and he and
his mother, and sometimes Miss Latimer, too, used to go off together to
Hampstead or Highgate or Greenwich, where he could gather wild flowers
and play about, while she found quaint or pretty “bits” for sketches.
Then, when they came home, there was Tom with funny stories about
people and events at the office, or the “latest news” of the evening.
The domestic group, with their varied ages and developments, made, as
it were, a pretty household chime—the child’s exuberant inconsequence
melting into Tom’s boyish enthusiasms, and those rising towards Lucy’s
serious ideals and soberer outlook on life, and Miss Latimer’s gentle
pathos. Of course, to old household loves and loyalties bred from years
of mutual experience, this was but as a sketch is to a masterpiece. But
it was good so far as it went. And every masterpiece has been but a
sketch once!
It was certainly a lovely gleam of peace and content, but Lucy knew
that for her its brightness was derived from her consciousness that
Charlie, in all the elation of renewed health, might now be considered
fairly on his homeward way! His last letter, which had arrived three
days after Tom Black’s in-coming, had come from Hong Kong, whither
Captain Grant had unexpectedly steered his course, owing to the
unforeseen demands of a promising branch of business. They would
leave that port a day or two after the letter was posted, and might
reasonably expect to arrive at Vancouver well within the year of
Charlie’s proposed absence. But the _Slains Castle_ herself, after
despatching her business at the Canadian port, would have to return
home all round by Cape Horn, thus not only unconscionably prolonging
her voyage, but doing this through stormy seas at an inclement season.
Captain Grant, however, had declared that he had never had such a
fortunate voyage, that Charlie had been such a “luck” passenger, and
that as circumstances had broken his own promise that his ship would
not be away more than a year, so on his side he would release Charlie
at Vancouver, rebating from the hundred guinea fee enough to pay for
Charlie’s land journey by the Pacific Railway and the short Atlantic
voyage by a liner from New York.
“I begin to feel that we may expect to keep our next Christmas
together,” wrote Charlie, “and I dared hardly form that hope while my
return within that time lay wholly with a sailing-vessel, on which
I find two or three weeks ‘more or less’ are matters of no account
whatever. Now, little woman, you and I must prepare for one more long
silence. We may touch at some of the islands of the North Pacific, and
then you shall get a missive; but again we may not, and then your next
letter will hail from Vancouver, and I myself shall arrive on the back
of it—like a postscript! I don’t need to ask you to let me have letters
waiting at Vancouver. Write there regularly whenever you feel inclined
to have a chat with your old man, and then, whether I arrive sooner or
later, I shall have a nice sequence of sweet letters to keep me company
on my lonely rush across North America and the Atlantic. Remember, my
wifie, that before you receive this, the distance between us will be
actually lessening day by day. Here’s to our happy meeting hour! And
God bless my brave little wife!”
Of course Lucy’s heart rose high. The worst was now over, and in the
glow of renewed joy she began to think it had not been so very bad.
As by magic the weariness and weight dropped from her feet, her voice
recovered its full, rich timbre, her eyes shone with fresh light. She
said to herself that she had not been overworn or ill after all—“only
anxious and depressed.” And now what she had to do was to banish the
thin wanness of her face before Charlie came home. As for the silvery
hairs—they must stay. But she said to herself that there is beauty
in silvery hairs, and she was not at all sorry to stand proven as no
longer girl or bride, but as woman and matron, with every right to
think and to act for herself and for others.
She was still going cheerily in the light cast by Charlie’s letter,
and though she had already eagerly written to Vancouver, she had not
begun to feel the damping effect of the inevitable silence of the North
Pacific, when an epistle came from Florence.
“DEAREST LU,—I am home from my visits, and am very busy packing us
all off for Scarborough. Can’t get round to see you at any hours I
am likely to find you in Pelham Street.” (She had quite forgotten
the holidays!) “Won’t you come over to me here? Please, do! Come
to-morrow, as early as you can in the afternoon, and stay to
dinner and for the evening. Please wire reply. We expect only one
or two friends. The change will do you good. I don’t invite Hugh
too, because I want you to stay, and I know you wouldn’t keep him
out in the night air. Surely you can leave him at home _for once_!
And do remember I’m your only sister, and have got such a lot of
things to show you. I’ve told Jem I’m writing to you; _don’t_
let him say you pay no attention to my invitations! (He has said
that—Jem can be nasty sometimes, though he’s always so polite to
you!) _Do come!_
“From your loving sister,
“FLO BRAND.
“P.S.—I suppose you are always getting the best of good news from
the other side of the sea?”
That palpable “afterthought” nearly made Lucy flatly decline the
appeal. Yet she hesitated. This was only “Florence’s way,” and she
might have done just the same had the original motive of her letter
been inquiry after her brother-in-law and not a mere invitation to
her sister. Lucy wanted to cherish family affection, so far as it was
possible; and then she could well believe that Jem “could be nasty.”
Poor Flo!
So she got as far as to mention her invitation to her little household
at tea-time.
“Of course you’ll go,” said Miss Latimer. “It will do you a world of
good.”
“Hugh and I will get on grandly while you are away,” said Tom. “We’ve
got a plan laid out already for some evening ‘when mamma is busy,’ but
now it shall be when ‘mamma is gone to a party.’”
“I can’t go very early,” observed Lucy, hesitating, “for I sha’n’t
leave home before you come from the office.”
“It’s a slack time, and I’ll get away sharp,” returned Tom, while
Hugh’s face, which had clouded, cleared, and he danced to and fro
between his mother and his friend.
So Lucy wrote to Florence, and told her she might expect to see her
between five and six next evening.
(_To be continued._)
OUR LILY GARDEN.
PRACTICAL AIDS TO THE CULTURE OF LILIES.
BY CHARLES PETERS.
A visit to the royal gardens at Kew is always a pleasant holiday. There
is so much to see and admire, and so very much of what is quite new and
unexpected, that all lovers of flowers must look both forward to and
backwards at their visits to England’s greatest garden.
We remember strolling into the gardens on a June day last year. The
weather was fine and warm, and the gardens were at their very best.
We had been into the various greenhouses; had duly admired the airy
lightness of the filmy ferns; had marvelled at the stalky palm or the
ridiculous cactus (one of the latter we can never forget, for it bore
a great pink blossom on what might have been mistaken for a savage’s
club!) We had seen the great leaves of the Victoria lily, with its
huge flower-bud not yet open; we had viewed with interest the curious
sacred bean, and had been half-stifled in the dense atmosphere of the
tropical orchid house. But it was not among the rare productions of the
tropics; it was not in the greenhouse in which the choicest of flowers
are exhibited in tasteful combination; it was not among the curious and
beautiful orchids that the finest flower of June was to be seen.
No! The finest plant which flowered in Kew in that June was to be found
in an open bed behind the great palm-house. On turning towards the
rosery when leaving the tropical palm-house, our attention was arrested
by a sheet of dazzling gold. We approached the spot and found that the
object which had brought us thither was a bed of the great Caucasian
lily or _Lilium Monodelphum_.
There was nothing in any part of the gardens to equal this bed of
homely, hardy lilies. It was perfectly lovely! The great yellow bells
hanging in pyramidal masses were as elegant as they were gorgeous, and
had the plant been growing in a hot-house it would have been looked
upon as one of the choicest productions of the tropics.
It was by no means the first time that we had seen this lily; but never
before had we seen it in such perfection. Each flower-spike was perfect
and bore from two to thirty blossoms.
Of all the Martagons, _L. Monodelphum_ and its varieties is
unquestionably the finest. Indeed, in none of the groups of lilies
will you find more than two or three which will beat this species for
splendour.
It is in the higher reaches of the Caucasus and the western parts of
Persia that this lily is at home. And surely there can be but few
finer sights in nature than a great mass of these lilies growing on a
hill-side.
_Lilium Monodelphum_ is one of the most characteristic of all the
lilies. It grows to the height of four or five feet and bears a great
pyramid of large, bright, canary-coloured blossoms, tinged with purple
at the base and slightly spotted with black. The pollen is yellow.
Though this lily is placed with the Martagons, it has but little in
common with the lilies we considered last month. The flowers strongly
recall _Lilium Nepaulense_. They are very long and but slightly
recurved, hanging downwards like yellow bells and swaying gently in the
breeze. This plant has a very strong scent, which, though pleasant in
the open ground, is intolerable in a room.
This is one of the few lilies which bear seed freely in England. In
some seasons every blossom will be succeeded by a long six-sided pod.
The seed, however, takes very long to grow.
In many ways _L. Monodelphum_ resembles _L. Auratum_. One of these ways
is the extreme variability to which both are subject.
The colour of this species is usually of a bright canary yellow; but we
have seen specimens of a very pale lemon colour with very few spots.
Another not uncommon variety has deep almost saffron-coloured blossoms.
Then there is great variety in the size and number of the spots. One
variety, called _Szovitzianum_, is very freely spotted, while the type
is often quite free from spots.
The colour of the pollen is also variable. In _Szovitzianum_ it is
chocolate colour, whilst in the other varieties it is yellow.
Even the shape of the flowers is variable, some varieties having
blossoms far more recurved than others.
It is usual to divide the various varieties of _L. Monodelphum_ under
two heads. The first contains the typical or monodelphous forms. Here
the blossoms are but little recurved, of a deep yellow, with yellow
anthers. These varieties are said to flower two or three weeks before
the second group; but we have not observed any difference in this
respect.
The second or _Szovitzianum_ group produces fewer flowers of very
variable colour, but richly spotted with black. The pollen is chocolate
colour, and the blossoms are more recurved. The flower buds are also
visible as soon as the shoot is above ground, whereas in the former
group the buds are enclosed till the lily is two or three feet high.
Unless the soil of your garden is exactly suited to it, you will find
that _L. Monodelphum_ is by no means an easy flower to grow. But surely
its extreme beauty is sufficient inducement to give a considerable
amount of trouble to establish this fine plant. And when you have once
succeeded in making it at home, it will not give you much further
trouble, for it is perfectly hardy and increases moderately when it
once gets a fair start.
[Illustration: A PRESENT FOR FRIENDS.]
Rarely, if ever, does this lily do well during the first and second
years after it has been shifted into new surroundings. It will come
up right enough the first years, but the whole shoot will suddenly
die down about the middle of May. What causes this queer behaviour we
really cannot say.
_L. Monodelphum_ wants a very heavy loam with a little clay in it.
The loam must be of great depth, and should, if possible, rest on a
chalky base. A little lime should be added to the soil, but peat should
be excluded and sand should only be placed round the bulb. When the
flower-buds show, a good thick top-dressing of old stable manure may be
applied with advantage.
This lily should never be disturbed when once it has done well. It is
better to place the bulbs very deep, say eighteen inches or so below
the surface, and then the supernatant soil can be thoroughly dug and
enriched every winter.
As a pot plant, this lily rarely does well, for it is almost impossible
to give it sufficient depth of earth in a pot.
The nearest ally to _L. Monodelphum_ is the very rare _L. Polyphyllum_.
This lily is extremely beautiful, but is so uncommon that but few of
our readers are likely to have seen it. We have only once seen it
ourselves, and have never been able to obtain a bulb.
The bulb of this species is totally different from any other. It is
long and thin, being composed of numerous long lance-shaped scales. As
far as we know, the bulb is always pure white.
In growth this lily resembles the last, but it rarely reaches a greater
height than three feet.
The flowers are longer but more reflexed than are those of _L.
Monodelphum_. They are of a beautiful creamy-white colour, curiously
streaked with dark purple markings.
It was formerly grown under the name of _Fritillaria Polyphylla_,
but that it is truly a lily is unquestionable. It is a native of the
Himalayas, and we should think that its culture ought to be similar to
that of _L. Giganteum_ from the same region. It is said to be perfectly
hardy.
The North American Continent has given us many species of lilies. Up
to the present we have only described three: _L. Washingtonianum_, _L.
Parryi_, and _L. Philadelphicum_. These three lilies are certainly very
different from any that the Old Continent has given us. But we now meet
with ten species, very nearly allied, and yet in no way resembling any
others.
These are the swamp lilies, a sub-section of the Martagons, the ten
members of which are all confined to North America. And they are a very
characteristic group of lilies.
In most of these species the bulb is annual, being produced at the
extremity of a thick perennial rhizome. Why all the American lilies
(except three) should bear rhizomes and annual bulbs, while all the Old
World species bear perennial bulbs without rhizomes we cannot say, but
there must be some important reason to account for it.
There is only one American lily which bears a globose bulb in any way
like the ordinary bulbs of the Eastern species. This lily is _Lilium
Columbianum_, a perfect little gem in its way.
In all the swamp lilies, the leaves are arranged in whorls, the stems
are tall and slender, and the blossoms are nodding, only slightly
recurved, and of a yellow or orange colour, usually spotted more or
less thickly with black or purple.
The following are the ten species of swamp lilies, together with the
districts from which they hail:—
1. _Canadense_, North-East America.
2. _Superbum_, Canada to Georgia.
3. _Parvum_, Western United States.
4. _Maritimum_, Coast of California.
5. _Roezlii_, Rocky Mountains.
6. _Grayi_, (?)
7. _Pardalinum_, California.
8. _Californicum_, California.
9. _Columbianum_, Oregon.
10. _Humboldti_, Sierra Nevada, Cal.
By some authorities _L. Parvum_, _L. Maritimum_, _L. Roezlii_ and _L.
Grayi_ are considered to be merely varieties of _L. Canadense_; and _L.
Californicum_ is said to be only a variation from _L. Pardalinum_, but
we prefer to consider them as separate species.
And there are some authors who consider _Lilium Bolanderi_, _L.
Pardalinum Michauxi_, _L. Pardalinum Warei_ and others, which we
consider to be merely varieties, to be distinct species.
The culture of the swamp lilies is perfectly simple, and if attention
is paid to one or two details, failure is extremely improbable.
The swamp lilies want peat; they will grow in a mixture of peat and
sand. But to thoroughly establish them a compost of peat, leaf-mould
and sand should be used. If to this can be added the dried mud from the
bottom of a ditch, so much the better. These lilies are always thirsty,
and can never get too much water. They like a shady swampy spot, some
of them preferring the drier banks of streams. The bulb must be handled
with great care, for both the bulb itself and the rhizome are very
tender, and the numerous thick fleshy scales which compose them are
readily detached by rough handling.
To all the above rules for growing the swamp lilies, _L. Humboldti_ and
_L. Columbianum_ are exceptions.
By far the best known of this group of lilies is _Lilium Canadense_,
the Canada Lily. This is the only one of the group which can be
considered as an old garden plant. It has been grown in England now for
a long time, and was the fifth lily to be cultivated in our island.
This lily is a very pretty flower, not gorgeous nor pretentious as are
so many of the genus, but quiet and homely. It grows about four feet
high; the stem is very slender, and the leaves are whorled. In the
middle of summer it bears from three to fifteen blossoms like small
stars. They are bright orange in colour, thickly spotted with deep
purple, and about an inch and a half across. Their chief beauty lies in
the way they hang, for they are very gracefully swung. The segments are
not reflexed, and the plant more nearly resembles the _Eulirions_ than
it does the typical Martagons.
The lily is subject to great variety, especially in the colour of the
blossoms, which vary from lemon yellow to brick red. There is a great
number of named varieties, but they are all more or less inconstant. By
some authorities nearly all the other swamp lilies are considered to be
merely variations from _Lilium Canadense_.
Although, as we have said, the _Canada_ lily has long been cultivated
in England, it does not always take kindly to our soil, and very often
it speedily degenerates, and in a few years disappears. But if the soil
is really to its liking, it will often flourish in England. Like so
many of its congeners, it is very impatient of removal, and when once
established it should be left alone.
A fitting companion to the last, but of greater vigour and considerably
superior dimensions is the _Lilium Superbum_ of the United States of
America.
This species is often confused with the last, but it can readily
be distinguished by the form of its bulb and rhizome; its greater
vigour and more robust growth; the shape of the flower buds, which is
triangular in _L. Canadense_, and rounded in _L. Superbum_; and by the
blossoms themselves, which are far larger, very revolute and marked
with a green star formed by the green ribs of the segments. In this
respect _L. Superbum_ resembles _L. Speciosum_. It also produces more
blossoms than does _L. Canadense_, and flowers later in the season.
The root of this lily is typical of those species which bear annual
bulbs and perennial rhizomes. The bulb is small, about as large as a
walnut, composed of thick, short, fleshy scales, very closely packed
together, but easily detached by a rough hand. It closely resembles a
young fir-cone, but is more spherical. The rhizome or sucker is about
as thick as a man’s little finger, and from one to four inches long. It
is hard, but brittle, and regularly dotted with small scales.
As far as we have been able to follow the life history of the
underground portions of rhizome rooted lilies, we have come to the
conclusion that in all the bulbs are annual and are produced in the
early autumn when the flower spike is dying. It is usually stated that
in some species, _i.e._, _L. Canadense_, the bulbs are annual; but in
other species, such as _L. Superbum_, the bulbs are perennial. Perhaps
this is usually the case, but it certainly is not so with our lilies.
We do not say that the old bulb is entirely destroyed when once it has
flowered; a little nucleus is left which sometimes develops afresh into
a new bulb. But the tendency of all the American lilies is to run along
under the ground, shifting their position every year.
The flowers of _L. Superbum_ are numerous. They much resemble those of
_L. Canadense_, but are larger, more recurved, and less graceful. They
also have the curious green star above referred to. This alone is quite
sufficient to distinguish the species from the other swamp lilies.
It is a fine lily, and of course a fine plant, but it is not superb,
anymore than _L. Elegans_ is elegant.
The culture is the same as that of _L. Canadense_. It is, however, a
much more satisfactory species to grow.
_Lilium Parvum_, the little lily, is a graceful plant bearing numerous
small blossoms of a full orange, spotted with black.
_Lilium Parvum_ is another misnamed lily, for it often grows five feet
high, which is far taller than most lilies. It sometimes bears as many
as fifty blossoms.
_Lilium Maritimum_ resembles the last, but the blossoms are far
fewer, and are of a brick-red colour. Both these lilies resemble
_L. Canadense_ in their growth and habits. The bulb of _L. Parvum_
resembles that of _Lilium Pardalinum_ on a small scale.
_Lilium Roezlii_, another similar species, bears yellow flowers richly
spotted with purple. The bulb is rhizomatous. We figured the bulb of
this lily in our October part. _L. Grayi_ we know little or nothing of.
We possess a root, but it seems reluctant to flower.
The panther lily, or _Lilium Pardalinum_, is the finest of the swamp
lilies, Humboldt’s lily perhaps excepted. This lily has so much in
its favour that it should be grown by everyone who possesses a soil
suitable to its culture.
The bulb of this lily is very long, and the rhizome is covered with
scales, so that it is impossible to say where the bulb ends and the
rhizome begins. It is yellowish in colour, often suffused with pink.
In growth it resembles _L. Superbum_, but the inflorescence is quite
distinct. The flowers are large; the segments deep red for their outer
half and bright orange at their base, thickly spotted with black. In
the centre of the red portion of the segment is a large black spot
bordered with yellow, which gives the whole flower a very attractive
appearance. The petioles, or stalks which support the blossoms, are
very gracefully curved, a characteristic very well portrayed in the
accompanying drawing. Each stem will produce from three to eight
blossoms, each about two and a half inches across.
This is another very variable lily, and a large number of its varieties
have received special names. The variety _Augustifolium_, figured in
our illustration, is the one commonly grown. _L. Pardalinum Warei_
has flowers of an unspotted apricot colour. It is extremely rare and
expensive. _L. Bourgoei_ and _L. Pallidifolium_ are varieties which our
knowledge of lilies is insufficient to differentiate.
Perhaps a variety of _L. Pardalinum_, but more probably a distinct
species, _Lilium Californicum_ is distinguished from the last lily by
the fewness, but large size, of its blossoms, the greater brilliance of
its colour, the abrupt transition from the red to the orange portions
of the perianth, and the browner colour of its spots.
_L. Pardalinum_ and _L. Californicum_ require the same treatment as the
other swamp lilies except that they must have more leaf mould, more of
the mud from the ditch, if you can get it, and less peat and less water.
The last two of the swamp lilies of North America stand apart from
those which we have just considered, as they differ very greatly in
almost every particular.
_Lilium Humboldti_, by far the finest of the swamp lilies, is a plant
which every lover of gorgeous flowers should grow if he can. We said
“if he can,” for we cannot grow it! The plants do very well till the
blossoming season approaches, and then they die suddenly. Yet the bulbs
are not diseased, and the roots are chiefly normal.
The bulb of this species is long, oblique, and perennial. It does not
bear a rhizome, but it much resembles that of _L. Washingtonianum_.
In its growth and in its leaves this species resembles _L.
Washingtonianum_, but its blossoms would surprise anybody who had
never seen them. They are so different from any other flower in nature
except the little lily which is described below. Ten, twenty, forty,
even fifty blossoms may be borne by one stalk. These flowers are about
four inches long, completely recurved, but the tips of the segments
stand away from their bases on a pedicel of four or five inches length.
In colour they are a flaming orange-yellow, quite a different kind of
yellow from that of _Monodelphum_, spotted and splashed with a rich
purple brown.
We wish we could grow this lily, but unfortunately this is one of our
failures. It cannot be helped, we must try again; perhaps we shall
discover how to grow it in time.
From the last paragraph it follows that our opinion upon the
cultivation of this lily is not worth much. But we can tell you what
not to do and what we intend to do next year.
Do not grow this lily in peat. We imagined that the same treatment
as we gave the other swamp lilies would suit this one; but it did
not. We believe that it will do best if treated as we advised for _L.
Washingtonianum_ or _L. Monodelphum_. Still, we cannot grow the lily
ourselves, and we are not the only people who have difficulty with it.
If you want to know how to cultivate this lily, you must discover the
way yourself.
If you look at _L. Humboldti_ through the wrong end of a telescope, you
will get a very fair idea of _Lilium Columbianum_, the last of this
group of lilies. It will not, however, be a perfect resemblance, for
the flowers of the smaller species are more revolute and not nearly so
richly spotted. The bulb of this lily is ovoidal in shape. Indeed, it
is the only lily found in America which possesses an egg-shaped bulb.
This lily is not difficult to cultivate, a rich peaty soil with plenty
of ditch mud suiting it admirably. It flowers in the middle of June,
and is altogether a most satisfactory and beautiful plant.
(_To be continued._)
SELF-CULTURE FOR GIRLS.