34 MY GARDEN 



never weary of flowering with me. A viticella hangs 

 apart, and has made a Siberian crab her home ; and 

 graveolens, the yellow clematis, prospers on a " John 

 Downy" apple tree. I believe this sort of thing is 

 hardly classical, but in a little spot, like my garden, 

 we cannot have trees wasting their branches when the 

 slight creepers and climbers are waiting for neces- 

 sary support. Everything has got to lend a hand or 

 a bough here. We all work together, and we shall 

 struggle on until my entire acre is swallowed up. 

 Then I propose passing the enterprise over to Nature, 

 and shall stand aside and interfere no more, and watch 

 the survival of the fittest, and make scientific notes on 

 the relative vitality of contending genera. 



For some stupid reason only known to himself, 

 clematis coccinea has so far flowered but sparingly. 

 He reaches the budding stage, then gives up and 

 pretends the year's work is done. The annual 

 struggle into the boughs above him leaves him in- 

 different and spiritless when the time for bloom 

 arrives. A very little more of this malingering, and 

 the Texan goes. I can have no skulking in my 

 garden. He has got all he wants ; he is among 

 friends. There is not a shadow of excuse, unless it 

 be, indeed, that he lives too near his relatives. How- 

 ever, one has no leisure for these family affairs. I 

 give clematis coccinea a last chance. Let him fail to 

 justify himself again, and his place shall know him no 

 more. Probably a gay, young coccinea hybrid will 

 appear instead ; and I ought to select " Sir Trevor 

 Lawrence," because, even in form of a coccinea cle- 



