24 ALPINES AND BOG-PLANTS 
territory the only Polygonum which must always be in- 
dispensable is vaccinifoliwm. Oxyphyllum is still smaller 
than cuspidatum, with a profusion of snowy plumes in 
autumn; and a climber of great merit is baldschuanicum, 
which makes curtains of greenery in no time over a bush 
or stump, and then, before it dies down, glorifies October 
with a cloud of white. 
The Fuchsias, brilliant race, do not, of course, do very 
much for me in my damp, ill-wintered climate. The little 
hybrid, Bouquet, thrives well, and Riccartoni persists. 
And these are of high value for the rock-garden, particu- 
larly Bouquet—a tiny, tidy little herbaceous shrub, if one 
may use so paradoxical a term, which always keeps its 
position and proportion. But in gardens where the sun 
is lord, many more of the Fuchsias may be used. I shall 
never forget my first realisation of what a hardy Fuchsia 
means. It was on the western coast of Ireland. Be- 
neath the august cone of Croagh Patrick lies a tiny little 
ruined abbey, buried almost to its eaves in the encroach- 
ing sands of the shore. Far away beyond, a great square 
island, blue and very pale, stands up on the uttermost rim 
of the great pale sea. And, in this remote corner of peace 
and death, Fuchsia Riccartoni has made itself a beautiful 
shroud for the dead shrine. Everywhere, amid the walls 
and ruins and sand-banks, wave its long slender arms, and 
a million scarlet trumpets in the sunlight dance up and 
down with every faint cool breath that hovers land- 
wards over the face of the water. Only their incessant 
flicker disturbs the immemorial tranquillity which holds 
this heart of long-dead holy activities, as it lies buried in 
the shifting sand, embalmed in the golden tranquillity of 
a burning summer afternoon. And, looking back in 
memory, I scorn the specific. To Liccartoni, far down in 
the years, I refuse to swear; Fuchsia is all that matters. 
And, as for tiny trailing Fuchsia procumbens, for the 
