THE PAEONY. 4O3 



pany pronounced them dead and paid for the delay, as they 

 should. As a forlorn hope I took them home, cut off the dead 

 roots and planted the buds in moist earth in a box in the cellar. 

 Thio was in November. It was an open fall. In December I 

 saw they had revived and had thrown out tiny rootlets. I plant- 

 ed them. They were of course frozen solid all winter, and in the 

 spring I had twenty-nine out of the thirty choice ones, some of 

 which cost $2.00 a root. 



In the fall I have often cut up roots for sale or replanting and 

 left the rubbish on the ground, and found in the spring tiny buds 

 which had been neglected were throwing out leaves and roots 

 after freezing and thawing all winter. The root of the paeony 

 is like the gripsack which carries the supplies of the traveler. It 

 has life, vigor and bloom in embryo, and this makes it the easiest 

 of anything in the plant world to ship or handle, and with any 

 thing like decent care you have no loss. Will anything kill 

 them? Yes. Water must not stand on them. You must give 

 them good drainage, and in the extreme northern states it is well 

 to mulch them in winter. This should be done with all peren- 

 nials. 



Their Fragrance. — This adds charm to their loveliness. Over 

 a garden of these flowers there are billows of perfume. Some 

 ladies drove nearly twenty miles to visit my paeonies while in 

 bloom, and they said they knew they were getting there by the 

 fragrance which was floating in the air. Some have the odor of 

 the rose. The glorious Humei is cinnamon scented ; some are 

 like the heliotrope; and I have one promising seedling which I 

 have named Water Lily because it resembles it in form and 

 fragrance. Some, of course, are odorless but make it up by the 

 splendor of their beauty. 



Their Loveliness. — When I say they rival or surpass the rose, 

 I am disputed at once ; but I have the finest varieties of both 

 blooming side by side, and I have had florists compare them, and 

 the rose is left. Where is there anything that can excel the 

 Baroness Schroeder — a sweet ball of etherial, exquisitely fragrant 

 loveliness, so fairy-like it seems as though it might float away ; 

 in the center the delicate, lingering of tints of gold, and the rest 

 of snowy whiteness. There is Floral Treasure, a hemisphere of 

 symmetrical beauty, with rose-like perfume — six inches in diame- 

 ter — delicate flesh in color fading to white. This is Nebraska 

 born, and when you in Minnesota get fairly into business you 

 will rival or surpass it. There is Plutarch, odorless yet wonder- 

 ful in form — a ball of varnished crimson. Or take Tecumseh, the 



