192 



Garden and Forest. 



[Number 271. 



are looking for sylvan or pastoral quiet. The sum of the 

 matter is that the proper designing of any considera- 

 ble public park demands the best thought of an artist of 

 the tirst rank, and that a work of genuine landscape-art, 

 like the work of an architect of commanding ability, does 

 more than simply make appeal to the esthetic sense. It 

 meets human necessities and human longings, in the most 

 practical, economical and satisfying way, and wherever 

 any planning of a public park is not entrusted to an artist 

 of broad mental attainment, of catholic taste and thorough 

 training, the result will be a costly and unsatisfactory sub- 

 stitute for what the people have a right to demand. 



In the throng who witnessed on Monday the Columbian 

 Exposition few probably realized that the harmony of the 

 scene and the perfection and convenience of the whole 

 scheme of arrangement were due to the genius of one man, 

 Frederick Law Olmsted. Many others have brought to 

 this great enterprise their gifts of labor, devotion, artistic 

 training and the enthusiasm born of a great opportunity, 

 but the spark of genius which has produced a single and 

 consistent work of art, changing the sandy and uninviting 

 waste of Jackson Park into a marvel of stately beauty, 

 sprung from his brain. Of this the world may still be 

 ignorant, but his associates realize and proclaim it ; and 

 the architects, sculptors and painters who have been in- 

 spired to their sincerest efforts feel that their wQrk serves a 

 nobler purpose, because the labor of each contributed to 

 the harmonious development and expression of his com- 

 prehensive idea. 



At the end of a few months the visible result of the labors 

 of the group of remarkable artists who have built the 

 Columbian Exposition will have disappeared, but their 

 work will live in the educational influences, direct and in- 

 direct, which it must exert on the people of this country. 

 The immediate results will pass away, but the light which 

 has been kindled on the shores of Lake Michigan will 

 make American homes happier and more beautiful from 

 one end of the continent to the other. 



The foremost artist which the New World has yet pro- 

 duced, Mr. Olmsted, has been singularly fortunate in im- 

 pressing himself during his own life upon his time and 

 people, and in living to see with his own eyes the develop- 

 ment and perfection of his greatest conceptions. The 

 memory of his name and personality may be dimmed in 

 the passage of years, for it is the fate of architects to be 

 lost in their work, but millions of people now unborn will 

 find rest and refreshment in the contemplation of smiling 

 landscapes which he has made, and will enjoy the shade 

 of trees which he has planted. No American has been 

 more useful in his time or has made a more valuable and 

 lasting contribution to civilization in this country. 



Waiting' for the May. 



'"PHERE is a period when " the slow feet of the New Eng- 

 -*- land spring" seem to linger upon the mountains, and 

 when, to change the metaphor, the season sticks in the ways, 

 as it were, and refuses to be launched. 



April, this year, has been a sort of diluted March — March 

 and water. A good deal of water and much east wind have 

 prevailed, as well as snow and blustering winds, which have 

 prolonged this unconscionable winter in the old colony, till we 

 are all tired and sick of it. Now that May has about come, we 

 walk abroad and consider the situation, which is still pretty 

 disconsolate. In the last week of April the grass is only green 

 in sunny and highly cultivated spots, the tree-buds are swelled 

 perceptibly solely upon the most sheltered of the trees, while 

 even the Crocuses have been whipped and battered by the 

 icy storms till they are a ragged-looking crowd. Tulips, which 

 ought to be abroad in their gay spring bonnets, are curled up 

 in tight little imbrications against the east wind ; only the 

 points of the Iris-leaves are showing, like Cadmus's warriors 

 rising in the furrows, spear-heads first. The sturdy perennial 

 Poppies make a show of green, and Pseonies stick up their 

 round red leaf-buds, just to show they are there and ready for 

 action when the time comes. The fragrant single Violet per- 



fumes the grass, where it has strayed from the border ; but 

 our own timid, white native flower, which is rarely late, lingers, 

 hidden under its hooded leaves. 



The shrubs are struggling forward, the foreign ones ahead. 

 Spiraea Thunbergii is the first in my group to adorn, as it is 

 the last to desert, the border, and is beautiful from its first 

 showy sprays of white blossoms in the spring, to the last 

 autumn-tinted tuft of feathery leaves that clings to its graceful 

 stems. In a warm corner the pendulous Forsythia is trying 

 to bloom so impatiently that I took pity upon it and brought 

 some sprays into the house. The warmth of a sunny window 

 acted as an incubator, and in a few days hatched a long scep- 

 tre of yellow blossoms that shine like stars in the drawing- 

 room and echo the glow of the laughing Daffodils, which no 

 weather can daunt, and which are ready to wag their gallant 

 heads in the very teeth of a north-easter. The Flowering Al- 

 mond shows almost invisible buds, and the Ladies' Tresses 

 are also alert, while all the Rose-bushes show lively color in 

 their stems and rudimentary leaves at intervals. The Ash- 

 leaved Spiraea has put forth little plumelets of leaves ; the 

 bush Honeysuckles are wide-awake, with the Philadelphus 

 close behind, while the Lilacs of several varieties have flower- 

 buds in fine condition, not having been coaxed, as they often 

 are, into a premature appearance, to be nipped by an untimely 

 frost. 



In fact, this year the development has been slow enough, to 

 be sure. Nature has been in her most cautious mood. The 

 careful Elms still house their timid buds ; the Oaks are hardly 

 astir. In the lee of the house an Ash-leaved Maple has dared 

 to blossom, and in each budding tuft of leaves displays a pur- 

 ple flower. The Evergreens look scorched by winter winds, 

 but they are never encouraging at this season, so one must be 

 patient with them, but there was a minute sough in the 

 branches of the biggest Pine upon the windy hill, which it had 

 never been old enough to give before, that fairly gave it a 

 grown-up air. 



In spite of its lateness, its chill, its persistent delay, the sea- 

 son is struggling along. The May is coming after our " weary 

 waiting," and even the east wind has a shy breath of promise 

 like the coy smile of a Boston maiden. This stir of coming 

 life in all the brown twigs is one of Nature's most delicate de- 

 lights, which she provides annually for her true lover. To 

 walk abroad in the garden when the plants begin to revive in 

 it is like the coming of joy after sorrow, doubly dear and 

 sweet. Each little clump of withered leaves stores in its heart 

 a surprise, and we welcome the blossom with enthusiasm. 

 There is an anxiety about plants that have been moved late in 

 the fall, that is allayed by the appearance of a tiny shoot; some- 

 times we are called upon to mourn the loss of some favorite 

 which has failed to survive the winter. From year to year our 

 gardens change, old things disappear, new ones arrive (without 

 our invitadon, sometimes), and strange visitors appear beside 

 the familiar faces. Verily, " a bird of the air shall carry the 

 matter," and some chance seed thus sown may give us an 

 unexpected splendor in a neglected corner. 



As we push aside the old withered stalks of last year's 

 growth and see the coming of the green successors, we have 

 a thrill of affecdon for the returning guest, and welcome it 

 with cordial rejoicing. There is a sunny bank in my garden, 

 well sheltered by a wall on the north, and overhung by shrubs 

 and trees, where every spring the Violets grow. They are 

 constantly trodden under foot, and bring with them the same 

 lesson of sweetness and humility, the same charm of fragrance 

 and promise. Were those Violets missing, the spring would 

 lack something that we have learned to count on and rejoice in; 

 for garden-flowers that spring spontaneously in the grass, 

 whether because the green setting enhances their value, or 

 because we do not expect to find them there, always have a 

 peculiar charm, so that I wonder that people do not always 

 plant such harmless varieties as Come Early, when they can 

 give so much true pleasure. 



In the great pleasure-grounds of the Italian noblemen in 

 Rome in the Villa Borghese, the Villa Pamphili Doria and 

 others (for the villa means the grounds with them, and not the 

 house, as with us), the grass in late February and early March 

 is studded with Anemones of all hues. Red, yellow, white 

 and purple blossoms bestar the ground, and with true kindli- 

 ness the princely proprietors allow the people to come and 

 gather them at will, so that on any fine day groups of happy 

 children may be seen filling their hats and aprons with these 

 gay flowers, which are as plenty as Dandelions upon the 

 spacious lawns. And as you wander through the Borghese 

 Park, a hint of sweetness invites you to where the Violets 

 grow, blue and dark, in some shady, moist nook, free for the 

 picking. Nor shall I ever forget the sensation of driving in 



