pe ag, if ar? = a y ; Epc Pe re | Pa Nan Pi Pas : ieee, o, Ri re Po : < A anaes a = | sat ee i ee case detheeste ae tent taste Sate Aes catntatarsetactstaptee escte yy 5 Wet te as y fa Pa 3 F vi) 3 ay 5 x ax De etek 4 y i 4 Ban fee Oh 2 10 oh >I ” > we > Aao2 ee ct oh wm Sin ire ee ae Poet ee BE “ 2 tt Ae ae FF let ee SNe. cos mom 8 Saad oa Can ae. Athy . a4, CORNELL UNIVERSITY LIBRARY | FROM Mrs.xn.8,¥illiams RETURN TO ALBERT R. MANN LIBRARY ITHACA, N. Y. Cornell University Library “an ; : 98 9 Cornell University The original of this book is in the Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924003398967 BRS rae Tee 4 LANG my i G O3De Gar Nore SS RON A D =" Gard A Collection of Quotations Instructive and Sentimental \} Gathered and Arranged by LL) { e:) \vi SK SS p = Sy \ SN WS SS SS JENNIE Day HAINES Decorations by SpENcER WRIGHT Boke } | Published by Paut Ertper & |f Co., San Francisco and New York |k 8 | ra fay OANA EN SSS SN WAIT WW BNC | Y aN A ZZ ( \ } COLE, oe a US ZZ LA Ws & EN ike SS SS AX S CS 35 NM 5 Wy é&X um MPS: CaN YU Pm j Snes ORIN AD VA What Js a Garden? By a garden is meant mystically a place of spirit- @|| ual repose, stillness, peace, refreshment, delight. Cardinal Newman. The word garden is a never-ceasing delight, it seems to me Oriental,— perhaps I have a transmitted sense from my grandmother Eve of the Garden of Eden. Alice Morse Earle. A Garden is a lovesome thing, God wot ! Rose plot, Fringed pool, Fern’d grot— The veriest school Of Peace; and yet the fool Contends that God is not— Not God! in gardens! when the eve is cool? Nay, but I have a sign; Tis very sure God walks in mine. Thomas Edward Brown. Perhaps no word of six letters concentrates so much human satisfaction as the word “garden.” Not accidentally, indeed, did the inspired writer make Paradise a garden: and still to-day, when a man has found all the rest of the world vanity, he retires into his garden. When man needs just one word to express in rich and poignant symbol his sense of accumulated beauty and blessedness, his first thought is of a gar- den. The saint speaks of “ The Garden of God.” “ A garden enclosed is my sister, my spouse,” cries the lover; or, “There is a garden in her face,” he sings; and the soldier’s stern dream is of a “ garden of swords.” The word “heaven” itself is hardly more universally expressive of human happiness than the word “garden.” Richard Le Gallienne. oh MV MSs RKAS \ aN ra ww \F7 SD) A DW YYLAL ROY ASIN REA EVP) SS SWS WBE EZ AN HZ = RO ) Har depue) Boke: RID AL WA aa AYN INN. ie ag ie LHS ! AY ; Z (SSURIN Brae J () aN t CN SSS SS hy Wy %, Vr NR SS es w= YR aa MC tessa If I were to choose a motto over the gate of a garden, I should choose the remark which Socrates made as he saw the luxuries in the market: “How much there is in the world that I do not want!” L. H. Bailey We have no reason to think that for many cen- turies the term garden implied more than a kitchen- arden or orchard. When a Frenchman reads of the Garden of Eden, I do not doubt but he con- cludes it was something approaching to that of Ver- sailles, with clipt hedges, berceaus and trelliswork. If his devotion humbles him so far as to allow that, considering who designed it, there might be a laby- rinth full of AZsop’s fables, yet he does not conceive that four of the largest rivers in the world were half so magnificent as a hundred fountains full of statues by Girardon, It is thus that the word garden has at all times passed for whatever was understood by that term in different countries. But that it meant no more than a kitchen-garden or orchard for several centuries, is evident from those few descriptions that are preserved of the most famous gardens of antiquity. Horace Walpole. Gardening is practised for food’s sake in a kitchen and orchard, or for pleasure’s sake in a green grass- plot and an arbour. Fohn Amos Comenius. Che first Garden God Almightie first planted a Garden * * * and indeed it is the Purest of Humane Pleasures, it is the Greatest Refreshment to the Spirits of Man. Francis Bacon (Lord Verulam), It has always seemed to me that the punishment of the first gardener and his wife was the bitterest of all. To have lived always in a garden “where grew every tree pleasant to the sight and good for (Miawh BED es \ hers WY? ) ¢ i \ A ( f i TSA Set ivr! Hl in| (PIMA =H LEK TLD EMRAY P| | SEOASSSISSS se AoA ¥ 3 WW (OHI food,” to have known no other place, and then to DRE have been driven forth into the great world without AN hope of returning! O Eve, had you not desired AN . . . e “a7° AR wisdom, your happy children might still be tilling |} the soil of that blessed Eden! * * * And then, to EWR leave the lovely place at the loveliest of all times _ in a garden, the cool of the day! Faint sunset I, hues tinting the sky, the night breeze gently stirring the trees; lilies and roses giving their sweetest per- fume, brilliant Venus mounting her accustomed path, while the sleepy twitter of the birds alone break the Y) \ silence! Then the voice of wrath, the Cherubim, if 7 the turning flaming sword! Helen Rathusford Ely. MeN a A Garden was the habitation of our first parents rn rk before the fall. Itis naturally apt to fill the mind ||_ ) \ with calmness and tranquillity, and to lay all its tur- bulent passions at rest. It gives usa great insight into the contrivance and wisdom of Providence, and suggests innumerable subjects for meditation. Foseph Addison. The New Eden When man provoked his mortal doom, And Eden trembled as he fell, When blossoms sighed their last perfume, And branches waved their long farewell, One sucker crept beneath the gate, One seed was wafted o’er the wall, One bough sustained his trembling weight— These left the garden,—these were all. And far o’er many a distant zone The wrecks of Eden still are flung: The fruits that Paradise hath known Are still in earthly gardens hung. Oliver Wendell Holmes. A) Wi} il | 4 QO TN ih tl hi << We ‘ I |! aoe h lN \CreAN Wx iva — Dy RSES TW ORD) RAINY OR PN eI |. iay Ss 5VN AGEN Y ON PAY ITIN V7 IY ee WAY SN Sr VOI ) paradise * * %& Of Eden, where delicious Paradise, Now nearer, crowns with her enclosure green, As with a rural mound, the champian head Of a steep wilderness, whose hairy sides With thicket overgrown, grotesque and wild, Access denied; and overhead up-grew Insuperable hight of loftiest shade, Cedar and Pine and fir, and branching palm, A sylvan scene, and, as the ranks ascend Shade above shade, a woody theatre Of stateliest view. - = * Flowers worthy of Paradise, which not nice Art In beds and curious knots, but Nature boon Pour’d forth profuse on hill and dale and plain. x * % * % # # Flowers of all hue, and without thorn the rose. Another side, umbrageous grots and caves Of cool recess, o’er which the mantling vine Lays forth her purple grape, and gently creeps. Luxuriant; meanwhile murm’ring waters fall Down the slope hill, dispers’d or in a lake That to the fringed bank with myrtle crown’d Her crystal mirror holds, unite their streams. Fohn Milton. I hold that the whole world was named a Para- dise. Moses describes it according to Adam’s sight, so far as hee could see; but it was called Paradise by reason it was all over so sweet and pleasant. Adam was, and dwelled towards the East in Syria and Arabia, when hee was created; but after he had sinned, then it was no more so delightful and pleasant. Even so in our time hath God cursed likewise fruitful lands, and hath caused them to bee barren and unfruitful by reason of our sins: for where God gives not His blessing, there grows nothing that is WAM AIA aha ares UHV AERA 4 (ermal spe el i | . : Ne fA a LY a, Y ot SAT (7 As al, j y good and profitable; but where He blesseth, there all things grow plentifully, and are fruitful. Martin Luther. _ God, the first garden made, and the first city, Cain. Abraham Cowley, Had Eve a spade in Paradise and known what to do with it, we should not have had all that bad business of the apple. “« Elizabeth and Her German Garden? (Countess Von rnin.) The Wondrous Gardens The hanging gardens of Babylon (gate of God), anciently reckoned among the Seven Wonders of the World, were constructed by Nebuchadnezzar, King of the Jews, about the fifth century before Christ. They stand in history as a testimonial to a woman’s influence. Nebuchadnezzar had married him a wife, the Median princess Amytis, whose heart yearned for the hills and trees of her native land, and the monarch, in order to gratify her, raised this prodig- ious structure, 400 feet square, upon the west bank of the river Euphrates, where the ruins are marked even to this day. Sateyed The famous pensile gardens of Babylon, built in the midst of the crowded city, were divided into four terraces, each 100 feet wide, the highest adjoin- ing the river; it rose in [four mighty steps of 20 feet each, to its topmost grade from 80 to 100 feet above the level of the ground. Massive piers of brick supported it, and between them ran, entering from each side, twelve vaulted passageways, each 10 feet wide, which were open to traffic, or available for roomsand offices. Over the piers giant blocks of stone were laid to support the mass above, and these were joined by meshes of ge WZ ry \ i, ? i ie Lath Rear SV Ry: DNATA, 5 Nuh ot ho awaelseh [X itt Na Bi SI WP WU ERT fi NS oy S USS. AN NCKOT | Ss, reeds set in cement, above which were layers of tiles, also set in cement; and again above these great sheets of lead, carefully joined so as.to protect the walls of the building from the moisture that oozed through the soil above. On this was spread deep, rich loam, and therein were planted, after the manner of garden and park, rare shrubs and flowers that delighted with color and perfume, and “ broad- leaved ” trees that grew into stately dimensions, and clung to the breast of the nurse as trustfully as had it been that of old Mother Earth. Through a shaft reaching down to the river, water was drawn up to reservoirs in the upper terrace by some mechanism that Diodorus, surely by an anachro- nism, speaks of as a sort of Archimedes’ screw. Thence came the supply for the various fountains and rills that decorated and refreshed the gardens. This truly was a wonder of the world; for in the vaulted corridors below, the politician and the money-changer plied their crafts, but the husband- man and the farmer were for once on top. Benjamin Ide Wheeler. The Garden of Damascus Wild as the nighest woodland of a deserted home in England, but without its sweet sadness, is the sumptuous Garden of Damascus. Forest trees tall and stately enough if you could see their lofty crests, yet lead a bustling life of it below, with their branches struggling against strong numbers of bushes and wilful shrubs. The shade upon the earth is black as night. High, high above your head, and on every side all down to the ground, the thicket is hemmed in and choked up by the inter- lacing boughs that droop with the weight of roses, and load the slow air with their damask breath. [% esa TU | ‘The rose trees which I saw were all of the kind we Mimaan call damask—they grow to an immense height and — Raz U le, Q iN eer (SUES See Ve: | AU), size. There are no other flowers. Hereand there are patches of ground made clear from the cover, and these are either carelessly planted with some common and useful vegetable, or else are left free to the wayward ways of nature, and bear rank weeds, moist-looking and cool to your eyes, and freshening the sense with their earthy and bitter fragrance. Alexander William Kinglake. ‘“‘La Petite Trianon” It contains about 100 acres, disposed in the taste of what we read of in books of Chinese gardening, whence it is supposed the English style was taken. * * * Tt is not easy to conceive anything that art can introduce in a garden that is not here; woods, rocks, lawns, lakes, rivers, islands, cascades, grottos, walks, temples, and even villages. There are parts of the design very pretty, and well executed. The only fault is too much crowding; which has led to another, that of cutting the lawn by too many gravel walks, an error to be seen in almost every garden I have met within France. But the glory of La Petite Trianon is the exotic trees and shrubs. The world has been successfully rifled to decorate it. Here are curious and beautiful ones to please the eye of ignorance; and to exercise the memory of SCIENCE: Arthur Young. In the royal ordering of gardens there ought to be gardens for all the months of the year. Francis Bacon (Lord Verulam). A Royal “Herbere” Now there was made fast by the tower wall A garden fair, and in the corners set An herbere green, with wands so long and small Railed all about; and so with trees close set Was all the place, and hawthorn hedges knit Ping Za Lol 3 FF aN ZZ Nt I l al = / ln, a N hs E— @ ig As v—&P A? asa PGardepuezBobewns q a RQ Vi ae - —— Se. a: oeene! y aOR A Alla) AG ANA SF —— SS, oN | 1 Gs S LS That no one though he were near walking by Might there within scarce any one espy. So thick the branches and the leafage green Beshades all the alleys that there were, And ’midst of ev’ry herbere might be seen | The sharp and green sweet-scented juniper, Growing so fair with branches here and there, That, as it seemed to any one without, The branches spread the herbere all about. * %* * * * * * And on the slender green-leaved branches sat The little joyous nightingales, and sang So loud and dear, the carols consecrat To faithful love. King Fames I of Scotland. ( Written while imprisoned in Windsor Castle.) feledixbal Gardens The herb-plot was one of the most important items in a medizval garden, for here were grown not only herbs and roots |for healing, but also sweet- scented mint and thyme for mingling with the rushes strewn on the floor. Sometimes the rushes them- selves were fragrant, and such, lemon-scented when crushed, may even to-day be found in the neighbor- hood of Oxford, probably growing in the very place which at one time supplied many a college hall with its carpet of fresh green. Alice Kemp Welch A medieval garden girdled fair With heart’s-ease, mignonette and marigold, Where dreams abide, where dwells not any cold Nor cloud to mar the hyacinthine air; An orchard close where wander debonair Maidens, in sapphire kirtles, aureoled With almond blossoms, lilting love-songs old, Despite the presage of some pale despair; ZA S eA NON ORAL , ATs ¥ RAN Fa 2 S ca Pat dD a LY), Za ey OCU AG es eet oke EN I Boh San: Ora STi a WE Knights questing down dim dales of Faéry; Portent and prophecy and weird mischance; Echoes of ancient runes that faint and flee; Flute-song and lute-song without dissonance; And over all, like twilight o’er the sea, The elusive gleam and glamour of Romance! Clinton Scollard, Monastic Gardens A garden was an important and even essential annex of a monastery, not only because of the LLY SE ‘“‘herbularis” or physic garden, from the herbs of | () which the monks compounded salves and potions ! LY for the wounded knight or the plundered wayfarer who might take shelter within its protecting walls, but also because of the solace which the shady trees and many flowers brought to the sick, for a monastery was generally a hospital as well. ee «‘ Herbularis” A chaplet then of Herbs I’ll make Than which though yours be braver, Yet this of mine Ill undertake Shall not be short of savour: With Basil then I will begin, Whose scent is wondrous pleasing; This Eglantine I'll next put in, The sense with sweetness seizing; Then in my Lavender I lay, Muscado put among it, With here and there a leaf of Bay, Which still shall run along it. Germander, Marjoram and Thyme, Which uséd are for strewing ; With Hyssop as an herb most prime Here in my wreath bestowing; Then Balm and Mint help to make up Yd ies ik AW] (WAY ale SSO WV) Dt UA oN) PSR OE MA aio MUN (AGES ease) MPT irvine MPT ITINNT Dll) pas TF y WAV a, wy ie Pape [2 2 ONE ALVA) (PRR My chaplet, and for trial Costmary that so likes the Cup, And next it Pennyroyal. Then Burnet shall bear up with this, Whose leaf I greatly fancy; Some Camomile doth not amiss With Savory and some Tansy. Then here and there I’ll put a sprig Of Rosemary into it, Thus not too Little nor too Big, *Tis done if I can do it. Michael Drayton. “There is Balm for sympathy, Bay for glory, Foxglove for sincerity, Basil for hatred.” Sage, too, sovereign Sage, best of all—excellent for longevity—of which to-day’s stock seems running low, for— Why should man die? so doth the sentence say, When sage grows in his garden day by day? Amos Bronson Alcott. Dld-fashioned Gardens Closed on three sides by crumbling walls of brick, All spotted by slow-creeping lichen stains, And nearly hid by ivy, matted thick, And dim with clinging mists of years of rains, The Garden lies. Inside the walls, the tall ailanthus’ shade Is tangled in the meshes of the grass,’ Or flecks the path, where mossy flags were laid For childish feet, long since grown old to pass; | Between the stones the scarlet pimpernel Finds room to spread its thread-like roots and grow; And all self-sown, the portulaca’s bell Lights up the ground with tender rosy glow ; pein MeN STI (i mill AE SUA PU itraeaen eee AT T Nw, DR GD MAIZE me re ye y s Dey The walks are Ke with dusky green of box, “That once enclosed long borders, trim and neat; Within them stood great clumps of snowy phlox, That shown at dusk, and grew more deeply sweet. And now the phlox wild morning-glories seek, Whose silky blossoms rove the Garden through, And press pure faces ’gainst the thistle’s cheek, Or star-like gleam amid the grass and dew— A thousand pushing weeds the borders hold, And standing with them wild and rank as they, ‘ iN Te i ne pe Are tender blossoms, now grown over-bold, \\ And careless of the Garden’s slow decay. \ Oh, far away, in some serener air, f (\ The eyes that loved them see a heavenly dawn: | 7 How can they bloom without her tender care? Why should they live, when her sweet life is gone? Margaret Deland. And where the Marjoram once, and Sage and Rue, And Balm, and Mint, with curl’d-leaf Parsley grew, And double Marigolds, and silver Thyme, And Pumpkins ’neath the window climb. . \ And where I often, when a child, for hours Tried through the pales to get the tempting flowers, WS As Lady’s-laces, Everlasting Peas, aS True-love-lies-bleeding, with the Hearts-at-ease And Goldenrods, and Tansy running high, i That o’er the pale tops smiled on passers-by, Flowers in my time which every one would praise, Though thrown like weeds from gardens nowadays. Fohn Clare. (Se. ) An Old-Fashioned Garden \ =o An old-fashioned garden? Yes, my dear, | - io No doubt it is. I was thinking here — | Only to-day, as I sat in the sun, Gy \S AV How fair was the scene I looked upon; ah a ar 7 i fa yz Arai SITTIN \ een i (ties (aN oy Sh iS ~ Za) aD AT eacerS MATTE iio AN L Ne NY NR Seen PUTAS Wx AT i Dr) ty i Ny “s 0, (ON HERS arte KSEE oa Une a CANO AVIA Oe a Op Ha @ it Yet wondered still, with a vague surprise, How it might look to other eyes. * * * * TE. % So quiet it is, so cool and still, In the green retreat of the shady hill! And you scarce can tell as you look within, Where the garden ends, and the woods begin. But here, where we stand, what a blaze of light, What a wealth of color, makes glad the sight! Red roses burn in the morning glow; White roses proffer their cups of snow; In scarlet and crimson and cloth-of-gold The zinnias flaunt, and the marigold ; And stately and tall the lilies stand, Like vestal virgins, on either hand. Here gay sweet peas, like butterflies, Flutter and dance under summer skies; Blue violets here in the shade are set, With a border of fragrant mignonette ; And here are pansies and columbine, And the burning stars of the cypress vine. Stately hollyhocks, row on row, Golden sunflowers all aglow, Scarlet poppies and larkspurs blue, Asters of every shade and hue; And over the wall like a trail of fire The red nasturtium climbs higher and higher. * * * * * Julia C. R. Dorr. In former times the use of Box was not known, andthe manner of usingit, if we believe the Table, was introduc’d by the Goddess Ftora, who, believing it to be an ornament prepared for Gardens, order’d it to be made use of accordingly. euida ; A Ve rid (Mee Pi RUT aren ul fy ALUN IY) lining, 104) ey Vain nia Ree i in SY: Zz V o Bokeyn t aN, ri TOSS en De ; DX Makar REF AMA Dld-fashioned Flowers And did you not feel, in looking at those flowers, how each made you love it as a friend—the Pinks, and Sweet Williams, the Everlasting Peas, Valerian, Day Lily, Jacob’s Ladder, and a host of others? Forbes Watson. The flower-de-luce forth spread his heavenly hue, Flower Damasks, and Columbine white and blue, Seyr downye small on Dent-de-lion sprang, The young green blooming strawberry leaves amang. Gawen Douglas. The Wall-Flower The wall-flower, the wall-flower, How beautiful it blooms! It gleams above the ruined tower, Like sunlight over tombs ; It sheds a halo of repose Around the wrecks of time. To beauty give the flaunting rose, The wall-flower is sublime. David Macbeth Moir. Sweet Peas Here are sweet peas, on tiptoe for a flight: With wings of gentle flush o’er delicate white, And taper fingers catching at all things, To bind them all about with tiny rings. Fohn Keats. Tiger-Lilies I like not lady-slippers, Nor yet the sweet pea blossom, Nor yet the flaky roses, Red, or white as snow; Ste, C7 / eg ai be \ = a = WAM 1 7 Shi )==acrss UN) a eat Mey WU Vos Nt ff (sl Pz, Gl] Yh Viti < ¢ h pg ul ale Wi; Mead It SA NaN sl aN iN Ke SSN A DR) TIO) CONE SNS X y » ( ! N LTS) WSLS is " \ q BEAK WY Sus cS SN WELSY Of iN bey} : AU, 2» SF om (OME AR CRIS AR, GAL BE Ke, PREY, WS I like the chaliced lilies, The heavy Eastern lilies, The gorgeous tiger-lilies, That in our garden grow! For they are tall and slender; Their mouths are dashed with carmine, And when the wind sweeps by them, On their emerald stalks They bend so proud and graceful,— They are Circassian women, The favorites of the Sultan, Adown our garden walks! Thomas Bailey Aldrich. The Morning-Glory Wondrous interlacement! Holding fast to threads by green and silky rings, With the dawn it spreads its white and purple wings; Generous in its bloom, and sheltering while it climbs, Sturdy morning-glory. Creeping through the casement, Slanting to the floor in dusty, shining beams, Dancing on the door in quick, fantastic gleams, Comes the new day’s light, and pours in tearless streams, Golden morning-glory, The Pink And dearer I, the Pink, must be, And me thou sure dost choose, Or else the gard’ner ne’er for me Such watchful care would use; A crowd of leaves enriching bloom ! And mine through life the sweet perfume, And all the thousand hues. Fohann Wolfgang von Goethe. LTA IK Bisey (we Ui KA (ETON AEN lh At Wl mM alll ) IME Hh ne Me 14 Sus No f Ma pina el al 7 K j SS RAE) ee SSRN RIVA YEA ANOTITAD Ves, ; Bi 4 < feel Wa 2 Zs Sti} pact ey, OSS y SS 4, &é g h 7 77 fi LL, ¥) \ CT I remember, I remember The roses, red and white, The violets, and the lily-cups, Those flowers made of light! The lilacs, where the robin built, And where my brother set The laburnum on his birthday,— The tree is living yet. ) Thomas Hood. WY When to the garden of untroubled thought 7 oa I came of late, and saw the open door And wished again to enter and explore The sweet, wild ways with stainless bloom inwrought, And bowers of innocence with beauty fraught, It seemed some purer voice must speak before ra I dared to tread the garden, loved of yore, in i a\ That Eden lost unknown, and found unsought. IN (X alt —=— Z| —— = NE i i } WL Ay ni MAHA Vj / NTA 7S all AV ibe caer 4% 4 ES SX cd RNIN ZAM) Ce LS =i, Then just within the gate I saw a child— A strange child, yet to my heart most dear— He held his hands to me, and softly smiled With eyes that knew no shade of sin or fear; “Come in,” he said, “and play awhile with me; I am the little child you used to be.” Henry van Dyke. A Girl’s Garden I see the garden thicket’s shade Where all the summer long we played; And gardens set and houses made, Our early work and late. Mary Howitt. Let us peer into these garden thickets at these happy little girls, fantastic in their garden dress. Their hair is hung thick with Dandelion curls, made from pale green opal-tinted stems that have grown long under the shrubbery and Box borders. Around their necks are childish wampum, strings of Dande- lion beads or Daisy chains. More delicate wreaths for the neck or hair were made from the blossoms of the Four-o’clock or the petals of Phlox or Lilacs, threaded with pretty alternation of color. Fuchsias were hung at the ears for eardrops, green leaves were pinned with leaf stems into little caps and bonnets and aprons, Foxgloves made dainty children’s gloves, Truly the garden-bred child went in gay attire. Alice Morse Earle. A Boy’s Garden Like other boys in the country, I had my patch of ground, to which, in the springtime, I entrusted the seeds furnished me, with a confident trust in their resurrection and glorification in the better world of summer. ‘TY: —) = Vl pon Mgncerh NY HVA AH hc il Pall AtvaivcnnneO NN WO reanislal AY, y yyy gay ef WS SSIDES WOU ee OUI : 4 we Oye ON eam ay (7 —< WA But I soon found that my lines had fallen in a place where a vegetable growth had to run the gauntlet of as many foes and trials as a Christian pilgrim. Flowers would not blow ; daffodils perished like criminals in their condemned cups, without their petals ever seeing daylight; roses were disfigured with monstrous protrusions through their very cen- tres,—something that looked like a second bud pushing through the middle of the corolla; lettuces and cabbages would not head; radishes knotted themselves until they looked like centenarian’s fin- gers; and on every stem, on every leaf, and both sides of it, and at the root of everything that grew, was a professional specialist in the shape of a gnat, caterpillar, aphis, or other expert, whose business it was to devour that particular part, and help murder the whole attempt at vegetation. Oliver Wendell Holmes. Anent Gardeners The three first men in the world were a Gardiner, a Ploughman, and a Grazier ; and if any man object that the second of these was a murtherer, I desire that he would consider that as soon as he was so, he cuitted our profession, and turned builder. Abraham Cowley. I can now understand in what sense they speak of Father Adam. | recognise the paternity, while I watch my tulips. I almost feel with him, too ; for the first day I turned a drunken gardener (as he let in the serpent) into my Eden, and he laidabout him, lopping off some choice boughs, etc., which hung over from a neighbour’s garden, and in his blind zeal laid waste a shade, which had sheltered their window from the gaze of passers-by. The old gentlewoman wz] eel iti TIN (| yeu a AYTIINY We a EN RO GUILE Kay PA A 7 Wavy WE os he Boket Cae f VEN @ ) A E % RO Ra ao fs (ase. ake | fice Ww RNY UE, * * could scarcely be reconciled by all my fine words. There was no buttering her parsnips. She talked of the law. What a lapse to corinne on the first day of my happy “garden state’’! Charles Lamb. Neither a garden nor a gardener can be made in one year, nor in one generation, even. “«The Garden of a Commuters Wife.’’ (Mabel Osgood Wright.) ras GR I To own a bit of ground, to scratch it witha hoe, to plant seeds and watch their renewal of life,—this is the commonest delight of the race, the most satis- factory thing one can do. Charles Dudley Warner. I think there are as many kinds of gardeners as of poetry; your makers of parterres and flower- = gardens are epigrammatists and sonneteers in this art ; a contrivers of bowers and grottos, treillages and cas- CB, i CH, | cades, are romance writers. Soseph Addison. 4 4 N Dr. Burgh in his notes on the English Garden calls “ Bacon, the prophet; Milton, the herald; and \ Addison, Pope and Kent, the champions” of this true taste in gardening, because they absolutely brought it into execution. IS Rev. Fames Dallaway. I often think, when working over my plants, of what Linnaeus once said of the unfolding of a blos- som :—“I saw God in His glory passing near me, and bowed my head in worship.” ‘Sohn Fiske. IK y Wy Hu ‘a “a ; a. NS Wi iw Noe > ras Nia [bss Doll any 2EES) iN Sar LN : VA vil EKe adi ANvaveannce= ND ne NN f NY) > INARA Rigen WS “AW fy) VZ7775 =8 } (ON (= WR) Che Location for a Garden With orchard, and with gardeyne, or with mede Se that thyne hous with hem be umviroune. The side in longe upon the South thou sprede, The cornel ryse upon the wynter sonne, And gire it from the cold West yf thou conne. A. D. Palladius. (Middle English translation, qth or 5th Century.) A south slope is the ideal situation for a garden, since it insures good drainage and the greatest amount of sunlight. The garden should also be open to the east and west, if possible; that it may have the benefit of the morning and evening sun. Shelter on the north is desirable, as north winds are disas- trous to Roses and tender perennials, on the west should be given in localities where the prevailing winds of winter are from that quarter. * * * The garden should always be at the rear or side of the dwelling, never in front or along the street. The reasons for this are obvious. The gar- den proper is intended to furnish cut flowers, to pro- vide a place of experiment with new varieties, and to grow hardy perennials which have certain seasons of bloom and cannot be depended upon at all times for ornamental effect. Oneshould feel free to work there unobserved of the passer-by, and this is im- possible in a garden close to the street. Ida D. Bennett. My garden should lie to the south of the house, the ground gradually sloping for some short way till it fall abruptly into the dark and tangled shrub- beries that all but hide the winding brook below. A broad terrace, half as wide, at least, as the house is high, should run along the whole southern length TON, Ray Partial shelter |" _—————__ ARAN XY) AN HOY Co Ayn Y peed YAR AO AIX WAY B > D, es — =F} 3 = 29 iis YIN WR em IU ZY IBA SSNS rs me PNA 2 arn SP We) BGS IVA, of the building, extending to the western side also, TAN whence, over the distant country, I may catch the Hs last red light of the setting sun. * * * The upper N terrace should be strictly architectural, and no plants are to be harboured there, save such as twine among the balustrades, or fix themselves in the mouldering crevices of the stone. I can endure no plants in pots,—a plant in a pot is like a bird ina cage. Thomas Fames. The Garden in Sprirg Spring Has Come And first the snowdrop’s bells are seen, Then close against the sheltering wall The tulip’s horn of dusky green, The peony’s dark unfolding ball. The golden-chaliced crocus burns, The long narcissus blades appear, The cone-beaked hyacinth returns To light her blue-flamed chandelier. The willow’s whistling lashes, wrung By the wild winds of gusty March, With sallow leaflets lightly strung, Are swaying by the tufted larch. See the proud tulip’s flaunting cup, That flames in glory for an hour,— Behold it withering,—then look up,— How meek the forest monarch’s flower! When wake the violets, Winter dies ; When sprout the elm-buds, Spring is near ; When lilacs blossom, Summer cries, “Bud little roses, Spring is here.” Oliver Wendell Holmes. ANI me Ve — UE a f S AUN Beste | NL TN) WRN Pane) Ny SUN ! TA AO... Nef \eNmea tls fi ul Al nwa gh TW/HPA (NEB ION MOSS Is Q \\ SF Fe P Be , NERS ARCRIS RT © Ww, — > ) Easter in “ Elizabeth’s German Garden”’ Oh, I could dance and sing for joy that the Spring is here! What a resurrection of beauty there is in my garden, and of brightest hope in my heart! The whole of this radiant Easter day I have spent out of doors, sitting at first among the wind- flowers and celandines, and then, later, walking with the babies to the Hirschwald, to see what the spring had been doing there; and the afternoon was so hot that we lay a long time on the turf, blinking up through the leafless branches of the silver birches at the soft, fat little white clouds floating motionless in the blue. We had tea on the grass in the sun, and when it began to grow late, and the babies were in bed, and all the little windflowers folded up for the night, I still wandered in the green paths, my heart full of happiest gratitude. “There is a princess or a duchess or somebody * * and she lives in Germany and is named Elizabeth, and she’s written a book about her garden, and it made such things the rage.” “) You stand alone. Fronting the winter with a fearless grace, \ =e Flavoring the odorless gray autumn chill, 7*\ | I | Nipped by the furtive frosts, but cheery still, x fi | AA Lifting to heaven from the bare garden place MAN Ware A smiling face. i} NAN ie Susan Coolidge, NZ jes 4) rin D Ne ie YD WYisth i ( igh Hl aye a Pe Prd rE I era Re aN B Aika — ST ISSR SE ON) LT RS Coenen ys SSNS ND pestis a ( or TKS bi 6 “ SF & sth x iP 4 i PAT eral Peril wi 7 DS <8 AURA i eT SS xscie| (ieee Sh rtrrs GR 1 Ma WE SA BINNIE The hyacinth for constancy wi’ its unchanging {hyp NA! blue. i py Robert Burns, My Origin of Violets I know, blue modest violets, : Gleaming with dew at morn— I know the place you come from And the way that you are born ! When God cut holes in Heaven, The holes the stars look through, He let the scraps fall down to earth,— The little scraps are you. Unknown. Flower-de-Luce, the flower of chivalry—with a sword for its leaf, and a Lily for its heart. Fohn Ruskin. Harebells Blue bells, on blue hills, where the sky is blue, Here’s a little blue-gowned maid come to look at you; Here’s a little child would fain, at the vesper time, Catch the music of your hearts, hear the harebells chime— “ Little hare, little hare,” softly prayeth she, “Come, come across the hills, and ring the bells for me. Emily M. P. Hickey. The blue Flag: a little too showy and gaudy, like some women’s bonnets. Hone Davitt Uhrig, Sweet lavender! I love thy flower Of meek and modest blue, . | Which meets the morn and evening hour, ‘| ky a The storm, the sunshine, and the shower, re awa : r ae ne AS \ Se Sen ee ee Agnes Strickland. ih al ms ic aN Wt SS NGAI oy aN a ft LWA q NRK is ZN) ee \ye “a DRSRAK AN TA ee OEE SON TaaN e ; oe The Historical Rose hy fv The Rose doth deserve the chiefest and most i 4/Al| principall place among all flowers whatsoever ; being not only esteemed for his beautie, vertues, and his fragrant smell, but also because it is the honour and ornament of our English Sceptre. Fohn Gerarde, 1560, “ The brawl to-day Grown to this faction in the Temple Garden Shall send, between the red Rose and the white, A thousand souls to death and deadly night.” Shakespeare, The White Rose Sent by a Yorkish Lover to his Lancastrian Mistress If this fair rose offend thy sight, Placed in thy bosom bare, *T will blush to find itself less white, And turn Lancastrian there. But if thy ruby lip it spy, As kiss it thou mayest deign, With envy pale ‘twill lose its dye, And Yorkish turn again. Anonymous. SZ SNS The Floweret of a Hundred Leaves The joyous time—when pleasures pour Profusely round, and in their shower Hearts open like the season’s Rose— The Floweret of a Hundred Leaves, Expanding while the dew-fall flows, a And every leaf its balm receives. il (ti Thomas Moore. a, = SSS a RY) Wh I ale. SANT VAR EEHIATF 40 SRN | ni el sii fANWH Mi NU Nail i te eal ee SSP NANA WAG Ee “Ue: ae = Se ow " Bo! aN) AN CEN SA BARN) of NAT ZY Near that old Rose named from its hundred leaves NRE ARES al The lovely Bridal Roses sweetly blush; AN UI The Climbing Rose across the trellis weaves Aa A canopy suffused with tender flush ; The Damask Roses swing on tiny trees, And here the Seven Sisters glow like floral pleiades. Fohn Russell Hayes, Each New Year is a leaf of our love’s rose; It falls, but quick another rose-leaf grows. So is the flower from year to year the same, But richer, for the dead leaves feed its flame. Richard Watson Gilder. O beautiful, royal Rose, O Rose so fair and sweet ! Queen of the garden art thou, And I—the Clay at thy feet! 2 # * % * It is not mine to approach thee ; I never may kiss thy lips, Or touch the hem of thy garment With tremulous finger-tips, Yet, O thou beautiful Rose ! Queen rose, so fair and sweet, What were lover or crown to thee Without the Clay at thy feet? Fulia C. R, Dorr. The lily has an air, And the snowdrop a grace, And the sweet pea a way, And the heart’s-ease a face,— Yet there’s nothing like the rose When she blows. Christina G. Rossetti. yok Vb... ‘ is 41 NIE |S Cy use), KAY A y Mri (ON RE TAS CRRIS A ) BETA =< WRU) Omar’s Rose | Look to the Rose that blows about us—“ Lo, | “Laughing,” she says, “into this World I blow: “At once the silken Tassel of my Purse “Tear, and its Treasure on the Garden throws.” Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam. O stately Roses, yellow, white, and red, As Omar loved you, so we love to-day. Some Roses with the vanished years have sped, And some our mother’s mothers laid away Among their bridal gown’s soft silken folds, Where each pale petal for their sons a precious memory holds. And some we find among the yellowed leaves Of slender albums, once the parlor’s pride, Where faint-traced Ivy-pattern interweaves The mottoes over which the maiden sighed. O faded Roses, did they match your red, Those fair young cheeks whose color long ago 1 ? with Peers has fled? Fohn Russell Hayes. The Moss Rose The angel of the flowers one day, Beneath a rose-tree sleeping lay,— That spirit to whose charge ’tis given To bathe young buds in dews of heaven. Awaking from his light repose, The angel whispered to the rose: “O fondest object of my care, Still fairest found, where all are fair; For the sweet shade thou giv’st to me Ask what thou wilt, ’t is granted thee.” “Then,” said the rose, with deepened glow, “On me another grace bestow.” The spirit paused, in silent thought, ; AMS Wi ra NY) He Vien NU ES tte ema (NTT y Ae SAAN CRAIN Cr oA ANY, | ny POO TR ANN ais 4 ND, Vi " SS \ Ry SEA SHU ON) UTP ATL LZ 77 EEA RNN P) a Y So Ww BFoas mg a POS SS oe aC AW SANG SCAN Sq LR oF, — pI) What grace was there that flower had not? *Twas but a moment,—o’er the rose A veil of moss the angel throws, And, robed in nature’s simplest weed, Could there a flower that rose exceed ? From the German of Krummacher, Che Poppy “The Garden Hypnotist”’ The poppy, though brief of days, is the garden hypnotist. Look steadily at a mass of these glowing flowers blending their multicolors in the full sunlight. At first their brilliancy is blinding; then as the pet- als undulate on the slender stems, your attention is riveted as if a hundred eyes returned your gaze, and drowsiness steals over you, for each flower bears the spell of the hypnotic pod, whose seeds bring sleep. “¢ The Garden of a Commuter’s Wife.’’ (Mabel Osgood Wright.) We are slumbrous poppies Lords of Lethe downs, Some awake, and some asleep, Sleeping in our crowns. What perchance our dreams may know, Let our serious beauty show. Leigh Hunt. I have in my handa small red Poppy which I gathered on Whit-Sunday in the palace of the Cesars. It is an intensely simple, intensely floral flower. All silk and flame, a scarlet cup! perfect edged all round, seen among the wild grass far away like a burning coal fallen from Heaven’s altars. You cannot have a more complete, a more stainless type NS > WA TANI II (ls i ath uN ri al = N\eRneeern og Pan Y S (es SN OVI Os SRO) Ly Uy Rana ZEEE of flower absolute; inside and outside all flower. Nosparing of coloranywhere, no outside coarsenesses, no interior secrecies, open as the sunshine that creates it; fine finished on both sides, down to the extremest point of insertion on its narrow stalk, and robed in the purple of the Cesars. aha: Ruskin: Here the poppy hosts assemble : How they startle, how they tremble! All their royal hoods unpinned Blow out lightly in the wind. Here is gold to labor for ; Here is pillage worth a war. Men that in the cities grind, Come! before the heart is blind. Edwin Markham. Concerning Sced A seed we say is a simple thing, The germ of a flower or weed,— But all Earth’s workmen, laboring With all the help that wealth could bring, Never could make a seed. Fulian §. Cutler. Of all the wonderful things in the wonderful universe of God, nothing seems to me more sur- prising than the planting of a seed in the blank earth and the result thereof. Take a poppy seed, for instance: it lies in your palm, the merest atom of matter, hardly visible, a speck, a pin’s point in bulk, but within it is imprisoned a spirit of beauty ineffable, ONAN (iat Kal Z Ta i AN 7 AMA NINZ ROY " DR = i NN MI en ground and blossom in a splendor so dazzling as to ‘if Hy, i which will break its bonds and emerge from the dark eps cunlNae yi i vy ( baffle all powers of description. Y ee wut all YY) LSS sae Par EN a= The Genie in the Arabian tale is not half so DAR ANNI astonishing. In this tiny casket lie folded roots, AN VORC) stalks, leaves, buds, flowers, seed-vessels,—surprising RRERN i color and beautiful form, all that goes to make up a plant which is as gigantic in proportion to the bounds that confine it as the Oak is to the acorn. Cela Thaxter. Oh, downy dandelion wings, Wild floating wings like silver spun, That dance and glitter in the sun! You airy things, you elfin things, That June-time always brings ! Oh, are you seeds that seek the earth, J The light of laughing flowers to spread? Or flitting fairies, that had birth When merry words were said? wr Helen Gray Cone. Baby Seed Song Little brown brother, oh! little brown brother, Are you awake in the dark? Here we lie cosily, close to each other: Hark to the song of the lark— “Waken!” the lark says, “waken and dress you; Put on your green coats and gay, Blue sky will shine on you, sunshine caress you— Waken! ’tis morning—’tis May!’ Edith Nesbit Bland. Weeds A weed is a plant out of place. Margaret Scott Gatty, With the first faint green lines that are visible among the flower beds come the weeds, yea, and even before them; a wild vigorous straggling army, full of health, of strength, and a most marvelous power \ fl v\ vi ye aK y NE ini é Nl HELEN Ae Wy LAE GLUT ANG: EE EDO O 7 VS a> anih p ev KOOME = ) OE LR iM “A LS SS P —= td of growth. These must be dealt with at once and without mercy; they must be pulled up root and branch, without a moment’s delay. Celia Thaxter. I scarcely dare trust myself to speak of the weeds. They grow as if the devil was in them. I know a lady, a member of the church, and a very good sort of woman, considering the subject condition of that class, who says that the weeds work on her to that extent that, in going through her garden, she has the greatest difficulty in keeping the ten commandments in anything like an unfractured condition. I asked her which one, but she said, all of them: one felt like breaking the whole lot. Chares Dudley Warner. You cannot forget if you would those golden kisses all over the cheeks of the meadow, queerly called dandelions. Henry Ward Beecher. The Young Dandelion I am a bold fellow As ever was seen, With my shield of yellow, In the grass green. You may unroot me From field and from lane, Trample me, cull me— I spring up again. T never flinch, sir, Wherever I dwell; Give me an inch, sir, Dll soon take an ell. Drive me from garden In anger and pride, Ill thrive and harden By the road-side. Dinah Mulock Craik. Aliya Nitwz FERNY Ox ASS ISNA WON te = AMEN WV) TN VEN Vi =\ ve my FN i ye i d Pain earl party its TAT A NU rat oe CQ YONA WSS RNAS <2 #7 i Me LY, RK Was ben) : (ON ERC a The Grass The grass so little has to do,— A sphere of simple green, With only butterflies to brood, And bees to entertain, And stir all day to pretty tunes The breezes fetch along, And hold the sunshine in its lap And bow to everything; And thread the dew all night, like pearls, And make itself so fine, — A duchess were too common For such a noticing. And even when it dies, to pass In odors so divine, As lowly spices gone to sleep, Or amulet of pine. And then to dwell in sovereign barns, And dream the days away,— The grass so little has to do, I wish I were the hay! Emily Dickinson, Toadstools And the people said when they saw them there, The fairy umbrellas out in the rain: “O Spring has come, so sweet and so fair, For there are those odd little toadstools again.” G. Packard Du Bois, There’s a thing that grows by the fainting flower, And springs in the shade of the lady’s bower; The lily shrinks and the rose turns pale, When they feel its breath in the summer gale, And the tulip curls its leaves in pride, And the blue-eyed violet starts aside ; Maiti Ce all / if i a : I ra y PAS Wy oe VN K wi Wy "4 Ht | be made to look like Nature. But the lily may flaunt, and the tulip stare, For what does the honest toadstool care? She does not glow in a painted vest, And she never blooms on the maiden’s breast; But she comes, as the saintly sisters do, In a modest suit of a Quaker hue. And, when the stars in the evening skies Are weeping dew from their gentle eyes, The toad comes out from his hermit cell, The tale of his faithful love to tell. Oliver Wendell Holmes. Five little white-heads peeped out of the mold, When the dew was damp and the night was cold, And they crowded their way through the soil with pride: “Hurrah! we are going to be mushrooms!” they cried. But the sun came up, and the sun came down, And the little white-heads were withered and brown: Long were their faces, their pride had a fall— They were nothing but toadstools, after all. Walter Learned, Art in Gardens Nothing is more completely the child of Art than a Garden. Sir Walter Scott. It is said that agarden should always be considered simply and wholly as a work of art, and should not That is true enough. Yothing, indeed, can be in worse taste than the land- scape-gardener’s imitations of Nature. But there is another plan. If your garden be large enough you can let Nature have her own way in certain parts of it. This takes time, but the result is eminently de- lightful. George Milner. ARS ( Wi 4g SUN IINEN eA UEUTEIN NU AY Ws LAIN SS? Ws NN Aa er nereewn os rK AOR yy ' PGi Our British gardeners, on the contrary, instead of humouring nature, love to deviate from it as much as possible. Our trees rise in cones, globes, and pyr- amids. We see the marks of the scissors upon every plant and bush. I do not know whether I am singu- lar in my opinion, but for my own part, I would rather look upon a tree in all its luxuriancy and dif- fusion of boughs and branches, than when it is thus cut and trimmed intoa mathematical figure, and can- not but fancy that an orchard in flower looks infi- nitely more delightful than all the little labyrinths of the most finished parterre. ‘Sjanephe Adaiton. To begin, then, we find flower-beds habitually considered too much as mere masses of colour, instead of an assemblage of living beings. The only thought is to delight the eye by the utmost possible splendour. When we walk in our public gardens everything seems tending to distract the attention from the sep- arate plants, and to make us look at them only with regard to their united effect. Forbes Watson. As to colour in gardens. Flowers in masses are mighty strong colour, and if not used with a great deal of caution are very destructive to pleasure in gar- dening. On the whole, I think the best and safest plan is to mix up your flowers, and rather eschew great masses of colour—in combination I mean. William Morris. Variations of flowers are like variations in music, often beautiful as such, but almost always inferior to the theme on which they are founded—the original air. And the rule holds good in beds of flowers, if they be not very large, or in any other small assem- blage of them. Nay, the largest bed will look well if of one beautiful colour; while the most beautiful | varieties may be inharmoniously mixed up. Leigh Hunt. AMIE Sh rah ‘ hs NY AV ary) ‘ ri Pier ll; i( INIA | (i el il OR PARA Tea Oe Ff 4 OYE vy Y b49 ‘ ee WYiey qt) a6 Sa OE S pmax come NTR I ig ED NE PW fountains One of the greatest ornaments to a garden is a fountain, but many fountains are curiously ineffective. A fountain is most beautiful when it leaps high into the air, and you can see it against a background of green foliage. To place a fountain among low flower-beds, and then to substitute small fancy jets that take the shape of a cup, or trickle over into a basin of gold-fish, or toy with a gilded ball, is to do all that is possible to degrade it. The real charm of a fountain is, when you come upon it in some little grassy glade of the “pleasaunce” where it seems as though it sought, in the strong rush of its waters, to vie with the tall boles of the forest-trees that sur- round it. Such was the fountain in Leigh Hunt’s Story of Rimini, which shot up “beneath a shade of darksome pines” — « y g g m > Wn RS ad Pree, “5 phe, (SSE i WwW, BR its moral uses, its beauty, might have pleaded for its SINR EAN Be NS continuance. It spoke of moderate labors, of pleas- ON ESRC ures not protracted after sunset, of temperance and AMAL i good hours. It was the primitive clock, the horo- \ logue of the first world. Adam could scarce have missed it in Paradise. The “shepherd carved it out #}/ quaintly in the sun,” and turning philosopher by the | very occupation, provided it with mottoes more touch- ing than tombstones. izle Tied. *Tis an old dial with many a stain: In Summer crowned with drifting orchard if bloom, Tricked in the Autumn with the yellow rain, And white in Winter like a marble tomb. SZ And round about its gray, time-eaten brow i" Lean letters speak—a worn and shattered row: — “I am a Shade—a Shadowe, too, arte thou. I mark the Time. Saye! Gossip! Dost thou ? be soe! Austin Dobson, Sun-Dial Mottoes A clock the time may wrongly tell, I, never, if the sun shines well. Old English. Let others tell of storms and showers, I'll only count your sunny hours. Sun-dial at Sandringham. I count none but sunny hours, Be the day weary, be the day long, ail \ i We Soon it shall ring to even song. (hh! N at 3 == — a me (AGT a eon aA RY ih ES . ¥N Vall NANA oo Q) vig ESTA A Za ERY a = Se g ON, NRE Khe US aa eS tA | 4 RN yy | Va i, What’s the Time o’ the Day? Time is Too Slow for those who Wait, Too Swift for those who Fear, Too Long for those who Grieve, ‘Too Short for those who Rejoice; But for those who Love, Time is Eternity. Motto far a Sun-dial by Henry van Dyke. ’ A Garden of the Sun * * * A small level lawn in the centre of which stood the sun-dial acting as the hub to a large wheel- shaped flower bed, or, rather, group of beds, as the wide spokes, each of a different but harmonizing colour, were separated by narrow grass walks. A similar walk circled the spokes and was bounded in turn bya circular bed that might be called the tire of the wheel, and divided the grass walk into four in order that one might get to the centre with- out walking through the outer bed. Four graceful wing-shaped beds filled the corners of the grass plot, which by actual measurement proved to be forty feet square. This plateau was on three sides enough higher than the surrounding ground to allow an arbitrary grass slope of two feet, with a couple of steps where the long walk joined it. * * * It is to contain only the perishable summer flowers, really flowers of the sun, and fit companions of the sun-dial. “© The Garden of a Commuter’s Wife.’’ (Mabel Osgood Wright.) A Floral Sun-Dial How well the skilful gardener drew Of flowers and herbs this dial new, di |p RN, ae Von SLi) NWS: VAY Pa IN Ne i malay ALAR sIFR ah NM sie ANY OG Sp! I = ASS CATASNRT IN ( SSNS A ONS psi 0 aps >: San USO SG A] WSN . When from above the milder sun Does through a fragrant Zodiac run; And as it works, the industrious bes Computes its time as well as we! How could such sweet and wholesome hours Be reckoned but with herbs and flowers ! Andrew Marvell, Saying all one feels and thinks In clever daffodils and pinks ; In puns of tulips; and in phrases Charming for their truth, of daisies Uttering as well as silence may, The sweetest words the sweetest way. Leigh Hunt. In these the alphabet Of flowers; how they devisedly being set And bound up, might with speechless secrecy Deliver errands mutely and mutually. iis Dink: Women and Gardens As orchards to men, so are flowers and herbs to women. Indeed the garden appears celibate, as does the house, without womanly hands to plant and care for it. Amos Bronson Alcott. In writing of her life near Albany, in the middle of the eighteenth century, Mrs. Anne Grant has left the’following record of the Dutch vrouwws: — “The care of plants such as needed peculiar care or skill to rear them, was the female province. Every one in town or country hada garden. Into this garden no foot of man intruded after it was dug : in the Spring. I think I see yet what I have so a often beheld—a respectable mistress of a family hea al AlN A UN jules ii: “ict A | NS) MM “a (ihe A eT | ne BS NS) yp sy Sip ae ZA Zs ss br Sp EAR A ANS ONS a >| ACE Ee les zy SAU Bee eo EMRE AARC ARIS AVS INNS) “The Frenchman’s Darling” :— It was Cowper who gave this now common name to the Mignonette. 07) B HUME Forget-Me-Not When to the flowers—so beautiful — The Father gave a name, Back came a little blue-eyed one (All timidly it came) And standing at its Father’s feet, And gazing in His face— It said in low and trembling tones, With sweet and gentle grace, “ Dear God, the name thou gavest me Alas! I have forgot.” Then kindly looked the Father down, And said, “ Forget-me-not.” Unknown. We may fancy that Eve—herself the first rose of womanhood—gave its name among the roses of Eden, and we like to think that as Adam gave names to all cattle, Eve tried her syllables upon the flowers. Her joy in existence and love must have blossomed easily into words, as she emphasized one after another of them,—was it love or praise, speech half asleep, or song half awake? Gs Wheeler. Che Poet's Garden The chief use of flowers is to illustrate quota- tions from the poets. ied. & There is probably no famous poet that has not sealed his fame into a song about some favorite of the fields. Wordsworth’s celandines and daffodils are noted, and Burns’s daisy, and Herbert’s rose, and SALI Ke, SN Y} 357 mM US)? Hane & Wigwh AY TAT Na Spy) WY Ni . aa SAS gprs com th NERA ORI CA a) NED fel Emerson’s rhodora, and Lowell’s dandelion; while in Chaucer the whole Spring buds and sings, and all along the lines of Tennyson flowers brush you with fine touches. William C, Gannett, The flowers are Nature’s poems, In blue and red and gold; With every change from bud to bloom, Sweet fantasies unfold. The trees are Nature’s music— Her living harps are they, NT ex On which the fingers of the wind sss Majestic marches play. Selected, | Flowers will bloom over and over again in poems, as in the summer fields, to the end of time, always | old and always new. Why should we be more shy of repeating ourselves than the Spring be tired of blos- soms or the night of stars? Oliver Wendell Holmes. Who ever sees a hawthorn or a sweetbrier (the eglantine) that his thoughts do not, like a bolt of light, burst through ranks of poets, and ranges of sparkling conceits which have been born since Eng- land had a written language, and of which the rose, the willow, the eglantine, the hawthorn, and other scores of vines or trees, have been the cause as they are now and forevermore the suggestions and remem- brances? Who ever looks upon an oak and does not think of navies, of storms, of battles on the ocean, of the noble lyrics of the sea, of English glades, of \ the fugitive Charles, the tree-mounted monarch, of j the Herne oak, of parks, and forests of Robin Hood and his merry men, of old baronial halls with mellow light streaming through diamond-shaped panes upon oaken floors, and of carved oaken wainscotings? Selected. Wii FAVE b* ¢ 7, ) : ni < AY) KX. aN ES)) @ AWS25K ON ENON DRG) f SP? (WZ ION NE uy Kg BK Si flowers for Thoughts To me the meanest flower that blows can give Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears. William Wordsworth, I pluck the flowers I plucked of old About my feet—yet fresh and cold The Buttercups do bend; The self-same Buttercups they seem, Thick in the bright-eyed green, and such As when to me their blissful gleam Was all earth’s gold—how much? Owen Meredith. Flowers preach to us if we will hear. Christina G. Rossetti. Flowers are Love’s truest language; they betray Like the divining-rods of Magi old, Where precious wealth lies buried; not of gold, But love—strong love, that never can decay! Park Benjamin. “Pray, love, remember: and there is pansies, that’s for thoughts.” Shakespeare, Of all the bonny buds that blow In bright or cloudy weather, Of all the flowers that come and go The whole twelve moons together, The little purple pansy brings Thoughts of the sweetest, saddest things.’ Mary E. Bradley. Heart’s-ease! one could look for half a day | Upon this flower, and shape in fancy out Full twenty different tales of love and sorrow, AGT ¥ A\ Aa WKN That gave this gentle name. Mary Howitt. | il CNN RVD) 59 aN co Great purple pansies, each with snowy heart, And golden ones with eyes of deepest blue; Some “freaked with jet,” some pure white ones apart, But all so sweet and fresh with morning dew, I could not bear to lose them, I could not help but choose fei For sweet Content sat singing where they grew. Selected. Every-Day Botany Who doubts there are classes Of men, like the grasses And flowers subdivided in many a way? You’ve seen them, I’ve seen them, We've jostled between them, These manifold specimens—day after day. You’ve met nettles that sting you, And roses that fling you Their exquisite incense from warm, hidden hearts, And bright morning-glories That tell their own stories With round honest faces, rehearsing their parts. Sometimes an old thistle ' Will bluster and bustle, When chance or necessity leads you his way; But do not upbraid himn— He’s just as God made him; Perchance some small good he has done in his day. The poppies think sleeping Far better than weeping, And never let worry usurp a good nod; They'll laugh and grow fatter O’er any grave matter, When sensitive plants would sink under the sod. == NJ SS ° Oke, SS SS Doran A | Mb hs iene STI Ns th i laf 2 OQ ) Ar hiecaiees rdepng t ” LS) RY D y 8 Writ C3! y Ayfte wT TT reece iit _———— Se a iy RR AIRCIRIN AR AL aia tt AGS IY The hollyhocks greet you Wherever they meet you, With stiffest of bows, or a curt little phrase; But never a mullein Was haughty or sullen, And warm are their hand-shakes, if awkward their ways. Ah! never a flower, Blooming wild or in bower, But lives in Humanity’s flora anew; May I ask, in conclusion, *Mid all this confusion, What flower we shall find if we analyze you? Katherine H. Perry, Garden Friendships “The Garden of Autographs” My garden is a veritable album, and as I wan- der over our place I find many a dear friend or happy hour commemorated in it. This little clump of oxalis, naturalized so prettily in the woods, was gathered one lovely day when a merry party joined us in an expedition to the Profile Notch. That group of lady’s-slippers came from the woods of a dear friend in Vermont. Here are moss-roses from a magnificent rose-garden in Massachusetts, and there are seedlings from the home of Longfellow, or wil- lows rooted from cuttings brought from the South by Frederick Law Olmsted. Hardly a flower-loving friend have I who has not left an autograph in plant, or shrub, or tree in my garden, and in like manner many a thrifty plant has left my borders for those of distant friends. Mrs. Theodore Thomas (Rose Fay). A garden that one makes oneself becomes asso- ciated with one’s personal history, and that of one’s TANIA WIA ARGS APES >, Leys (Pow SCENIC CLIO») A NES RSE cy eI AW Hatt Moran hear Hi WA ANAT al iN Ne SSN PIA 2 DS, AMA] friends interwoven with one’s tastes, preferences and character, and constitutes a sort of unwritten but withal manifest autobiography. Show me your gar- den, provided it be your own, and I will tell you what you are like. Aired Austin. The Love of Flowers ““Who loves a garden still his Eden keeps ; Perennial pleasures plants and wholesome harvests reaps.” You have heard it said—(and I believe there is more than fancy even in that saying, but let it pass for a fanciful one)—that flowers only flourish rightly in the garden of some one who lovesthem. I know you would like that to be true; you would think it a pleasant magic if you could flush your flowers into brighter bloom by a kind look upon them; nay, more, if your look had the power, not only to cheer, but to guard;—if you could bid the black blight turn away, and the knotted caterpillar spare—if you could bid the dew fall upon them in the drought, and say to the south wind in frost—“‘Come, thou South, and breathe upon my garden that the spices of it may flow out!” eh Raita As I work among my flowers, I find myself talking to them, reasoning and remonstrating with them, and adoring them as if they were human beings. Celia Thaxter. “Thou bearest flowers within Thy hand, Thou wearest on Thy breast A flower; now tell me which of these Thy flowers Thou lovest best; Which wilt Thou gather to Thy heart Beloved above the rest?” aff SAI MAUL NILE A 9 asa (Pt NAAN OY y S SNUG 2) ww (iso Nia AN CCE YN nyt pV endhy gD apne ge CAN (AT ty Qe de rk rss Si REc I IE iB EOE NH (eas i <\ sy (ONY Ree Ke “Should I not love my flowers, My flowers that bloom and pine, Unseen, unsought, unwatched for hours By any eye but Mine? Should I not love my flowers? I love my lilies tall, My marigold with constant eyes, Each flower that blows, each flower that dies, To Me, I love them all. I gather to a heavenly bower My roses fair and sweet; I hide within my breast the flower That grows beside my feet.” Dora Greenwell. The love of a garden, like love itself, like charity, never fails, 5. Regul Hele: The Gardens of the poor People whose lives, and those of their parents before them, have been spent in dingy tenements, and whose only garden is a rickety soap-box high up ona fire-escape, share this love, which must have a plant to tend, with those whose gardens cover acres and whose plants have been gathered from all the countries of the world. How often in summer, when called to town, and when driving through the squalid streets to the fer- ries, or riding on the elevated road, one sees these gardens of the poor! Sometimes they are only a Geranium or two, or the gay Petunia. Often a tall Sunflower, or a Tomato plant red with fruit. , These efforts tell of the love of the growing things, and of the care that makes them live and blossom against all odds. One feels a thrill of sympathy with the owners of the plants and wishes that some ss AMES win srs sl inert i p) veil ht ne “in ‘ j Arica eee Oa oth SAN S USS A earn oes YA ya IWWAGS ASOD A ff A VA, day their lot may be cast in happier places, wher AN *y ra they too may have gardens to tend. Helen Ruthurford Ely. Even in the stifling bosom of the Town A Garden in which nothing thrives has charms That soothe the rich possessor; much consoled That here and there some sprigs of mournful mint, Of nightshade or valerian, grace the wall He cultivates. William Cowper. Cowslips, wind your yellow ribbon through the low reen meadow, Violets in the pasture, put on your hoods of blue; The children of the poor man have no grand garden spaces, They have neither rose nor lily, and they depend on you. Make haste, O airy columbine, to trim your scarlet bonnet, And stand upon the hillside in beautiful array ; O darling pink azalea, unfold your lovely blossoms, Like flakes of sunset vapor, and make the woodland gay! Start up in every field, ye hosts of crimson clover; Scatter gold, O dandelions, along the grassy floor; Bring forth your rosy whorls, O wild briar in the hedges; O dainty daisies, come and fill the gardens of the poor! Mary Frances Butts. M I Wr, Et Flowers seem intended for the solace of ordinary humanity; children love them; tender, contented, ordinary people love them. ‘They are the cottager’s treasure; and in the crowded town mark, as with Sj) =a) vf lh ial BetaNews al DAN ‘] ES Wives Ire Re, 3 RSS YAS K x ay INK WBS 2 QUIZ SSS SASS VF NF Ser, OE ONO, t 7 SQW NE Ww, a little fragment of rainbow, the windows of the little workers in whose heart rests the covenant of peor Fohn Ruskin. Che Smell of a Garden After ten wearisome weeks of travel across an unknown sea, to an equally unknown world, the group of Puritan men and women who were the | founders of Boston neared their Land of Promise ; and their noble leader, John Winthrop, wrote in his Journal that “we had now fair Sunshine Weather and so pleasant a sweet Aire as did much refresh us, and there came a Smell off the Shore like the Smell of a Garden.” # %& & What must that sweet air from the land have been to the sea-weary Puritan women on shipboard, laden to them with its promise of a garden, for I doubt not every woman bore with her across seas some little package of seeds and bulbs from her English home garden! Alice Morse Earle. And because the Breath of Flowers is far sweeter in the Aire (when it comes and goes like the Warb- ling of Music) than in the hand, therefore nothing is more fit for that delight than to know what be the Flowers and Plants that doe best perfume the Aire. | 54 Francis Bacon (Lord Verulam). | V) if | py | The Garden glows, LD» And ’gainst its walls the city’s heart still beats, ax == 1 And out from it each summer wind that blows : Carries some sweetness to the tired streets ! 4 rm Margaret Deland. ay rH Ihe Sie i Does not the scent of the primrose, the violet i and the cowslip sometimes transport us to the banks | Nw eS ———— Ry or 5 Vv: = , y Ny iy tT ie 2 SANT p Uy, PP) AY SH \ AUK FA sr a eA Za | It Vihear it ermal ie Mm Vt TAKA a AS i] ty iS . KI WG ZION f 0 f NAO KEG Oa, OF. Lh RANA and meads where first we found them, and restore, | Teal though but for a few seconds, the tender grace of a re a) ae day that is dead? 8. Reynolds Hole, A AR ANR How sweetly smells the Honeysuckle Of utter peace and love and gentleness! wi | In the hush’d night, as if the world were one Walter Savage Landor, nN Perfumes are the feelings of flowers, and as the (fi human heart feels most powerful emotions in the My) night, when it believes itself to be alone and unper- ra il ceived, so also do the flowers, soft-minded, yet | Yy ashamed, appear to await for concealing darkness, ! % that they may give themselves wholly up to their Wi =| feelings, and breathe them out in sweet odours. Heinrich Heine, Wy \ Gardens of the Sea / The flowers of the sea are flowers more in ap- a pearance than in reality. Seen in masses through CY, | the clear water they look like beds of mountain pinks or fields of fern or hillsides of wild asters, \ with moss and ice-plant and cactus growths scattered | between; but the likeness is superficial. The plants are very different from those known on the earth, They have no root, they absorb nothing from the soil, they require neither rain nor air, and some of them manage to exist with little or no light. There are no blossoming forms, no leaves, seldom any fruit; and while there are growths having a foothold on the bottom that rise up through a thousand feet | of water to float ball-shaped tangles upon the sur- face, yet in form they are not at all like trees. The “trunk” that climbs upward so many feet is no larger than one’s finger, and the bunch of weed at = _ = = ce WwW LH DI EHON DRD) PNT A ty ll) le eee eat ly! WUSSS/P7 (SSE HON AULA OLY WAN edd 4 Al * S, the surface that makes a sleeping-place for the sea- |DXYRWANIS eae : GANA A otter has nothing like the foliage of the maple or ONE TT B: ‘| the blossom of the horse-chestnut. * * Bo * * * * And what of those plants far down in the sea- gardens that never feel the push of waves, those plants that never move or are moved from age to age? Are they perhaps modeled upon the same pattern as their cousins near the shore? By no means. In the depths where no storm or wave \\ ruffles the eternal serenity nature is free to expand ; \ and there she grows plants of symmetrical designs |} ff f with no fear of their accidental destruction. Won- LZ \ derful forms she models—crimson weeds with Aa A | plumy fronds, purple dulses with lace-like patterns, due iridescent mosses with antlered branches. Countless 3 alge, wing-shaped, threaded with lines, cupped and domed, starred and crossed and circled, are there. “Tn the wine-dark depths of the crystal, the gardens of Nireus, Coral and sea-fan and tangle, the blooms and the palms of the ocean, \ Stand in meadows and forests unchanging, un- ow fading from decade to decade.” Tohn C. van Dyke. 9 Che Garden at Even 7 Pink and white and gold My Ht ’Mid the waning light, Stars that first unfold At the gate of night; Peeping o’er the pansy beds, Flashing through the phlox, A blessing on your bonny heads, Happy four-o’clocks ! Samuel Minturn Peck. ‘pA NI REN CA oy HYG LO (MB WON 67 é Ax fe A ONES a ORL EG ~ Wg Ot pi aeea\| PENS ae SL = pS ye ae (ay (> : a SJ ; ( As ‘< > rh es ah Ciren % Zt tan ed a ae 3 Ceased eas q 2 e role oe ‘ zu eae = Pat a Spe. 30. 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