May 24, 1 893. J 



Garden and Forest. 



223 



Garden Gossip. — May. 



THE great annual spring transformation scene takes place 

 frequently in New England with astounding suddenness. 

 There is a tradition here that by the fifteenth of May vegeta- 

 tion is always at a certain point, whatever may have been the 

 laggard habit of the season, so that at times all things have to 

 hustle. When the British rode over to Concord after (he Lex- 

 ington fight, on the 19th of April, 1775, the grain was waving in 

 the fields, and the same phenomenon was visible at the same 

 date in the memorable year 1865, which saw the close of the 

 Rebellion. Occasionally, since then, as in the year 1882, there 

 have been similarly early springs, but they are not of ordinary 

 occurrence, and the Yankee farmer is usually compelled to 

 wait till May to see the ripple of his growing wheat or rye 

 under the breeze. 



In an average year, when wind and frost keep the soil 

 chilled, the change from brown fields to green ones, and from 

 bare boughs to leafy shadow, is often wrought with magical 

 rapidity. It was the second week in May, this year, when, in a 

 twinkling, the east wind, which had been blowing for a month, 

 went out to sea, the storms ceased, the full sun blazed fiercely 

 in the heavens and coaxed the mercury up into the eighties ; 

 the wet earth steamed, and twenty-four hours worked like en- 

 chantment. The Willows literally burst into bloom. One 

 morning saw them tipped with struggling buds, the next be- 

 held them ablaze with yellow catkins, about which the bees 

 boomed loudly. A shower of white blossoms fell upon all 

 the Cherry-trees, the Forsythias flamed with gold, the Swamp 

 Maples flushed in the sunlight, and Tulips and Daffodils made 

 the garden gay with blossom. 



Forth from the cold clod came the points of Day Lilies 

 and the leaves of the Shooting Star, while the Bee Balm 

 littered the ground with its fragrant shoots. English Daisies 

 and Pansies blossomed freely, leaves of Bluebells and Fox- 

 gloves and Larkspur made a brave show, and seedlings of 

 Columbine and Hollyhock vied with the precocious weeds for 

 precedence in the border. In a garden of perennials, therefore, 

 one does well not to meddle too early with the soil, for in it 

 are germinating all manner of little plants, which must attain 

 a certain height before the weeds can be singled out and 

 treated as they deserve. 



A New England spring is so treacherous that the careful 

 gardener in these parts sets out-of-doors no house-plants until 

 Decoration Day, for the rural New Englander times his gar- 

 dening by the public feasts and fasts. The suburban dweller 

 rakes his lawn first for Fast Day, and then plants his Peas ; his 

 showy gardening is reserved for the 30th of May. He eats his 

 own strawberries, if he is lucky, on Bunker Hill Day, and his 

 green peas accompany his Independence salmon on the Fourth 

 of July. He among us who can cut his own asparagus on the 

 loth of May achieves true distinction, as does the gardener 

 who can show a dish of strawberries in perfection by the mid- 

 dle of June. 



These early spring days are as busy as they are pleasant. 

 When the ground is dry enough the plow is brought to bear, 

 and the rich brown furrows are turned up to the sun. The 

 picturesqueness of the process has been revealed to us by 

 Troyon, who delights in the struggling horses, the active 

 figures of the plowmen and the splendid color of the fresh 

 earth. Whoso loves a garden takes pleasure in each stage of 

 its development, rejoicing even in the stiffness of its early 

 stages, when he waits for the appearance of the seed in its 

 straight rows or within its Box-edged borders. At all times its 

 grassy stretches, its shaded nooks, its clumps of shrubbery, 

 have their attraction, but never more than in the opening sea- 

 son, when each day brings a new visitor — a bud, an opening 

 flower, an unexpected shoot where one had given up hope of 

 resurrection. It is not so much the extent of a garden that 

 gives delight as the personal thought given to its arrangement 

 either for picturesqueness, for use, or for pure gorgeousness, 

 in which the untrained eye delights. In old gardens one reaps 

 the fruit of the care and thought of a past generation ; in new 

 ones we labor for a result to come, but not until we put our- 

 selves into it, whether wisely or unwisely, do we get the best 

 out of a plaisance. 



Those moments one spends in eager labor are not more 

 valuable than the apparently idle ones, in which the mind 

 works and plans a future effect. There is ever a period of 

 brooding before the real idea is born. To imitate, to do by 

 rule, is easy ; to hire trained skill is possible to the wealthy ; to 

 reflect is possible to all ; and who shall say that any realized 

 happiness of completion rivals the dreamy prospect of a charm 

 to come from the thoughtful study of to-day. 



For a garden is never completed, and has always within it- 



self that capacity for change and development which alone sat- 

 isfies the craving of the mind for novelty and exercise. If at 

 times we grow impatient with its slowness, again we are tried 

 by the luxuriance of its growth ; and in the necessity for con- 

 stant supervision we find the secret of its hold upon men's 

 minds. We readily abandon a completed labor, and that alone 

 which calls for untiring mental exercise retains its hold upon 

 our interest. 



In May it is a pleasure to transplant, for everything lives. 

 People are afraid to move things, but they really bear change 

 much better than the inexperienced fear. I find that if a plant 

 does not thrive in one locality it is well to remove it to another 

 for a season till it gets vigor enough to go back to where you 

 want it. Wild flowers seem to do better if moved when in 

 blossom, and by a little attention even Poppies, which particu- 

 larly hate being moved about, can be persuaded to take root 

 in a new place. Choose the intervals between showers on a 

 wet day, take them up in clumps with a ball of earth, and most 

 of them will go on growing without flinching. 



While a shrubbery is developing, there are many bare spaces, 

 and I have a fancy for scattering in those which show from the 

 window the seeds of Poppies and other gayly colored flowers 

 which veil in midsummer the raggedness of the surface. Pos- 

 sibly it is not the best art, but there are moments when the 

 amateur gardener of limited resources is obliged to compro- 

 mise with conscience. For my own part, the flaunting blos- 

 soms seem a pleasant contrast with the dark little evergreens 

 and struggling shrubs which one day are to be classically cor- 

 rect in mass and an effective screen, but they are pretty 

 leisurely in their growth, and the soil is not deep and rich 

 enough to admit of crowding them closely together, so, with 

 due attention to the proper colors, I prefer to believe that the 

 flowers are permissible among them. 



Under the parlor-windows, in a sheltered corner, some Tu- 

 lips have been rejoicing our hearts with their clear rich colors 

 for weeks. The ground between them and the house is car- 

 peted with Periwinkle, and the blue blossoms and glossy leaves 

 compose an agreeable background to their more showy neigh- 

 bors. It is well to put the early flowers where they can be enjoyed 

 without stirring out-of-doors to see them, for the searching 

 winds of April render a visit to the garden often uncomforta- 

 ble, if it be far removed from the house. 



The warm days have tempted forth the leaflets of the Vir- 

 ginia Creeper, and the Akebia, most satisfactory of climbers, 

 has arrayed itself in its delicate and becoming leaves, and 

 already its little chocolate buds are visible. There is a Japanese 

 refinement about this charming vine, with its well-shaped leaf, 

 its sad-colored blossom, its genUe fragrance, its persistent 

 growth ; for, tender as it looks, it flourishes in the most exposed 

 situations, and without an effort finds its way to the housetop. 

 Its compatriot, the Japanese Honeysuckle, shows a touch of 

 green all winter long, where the winds are not too keen, and 

 its disposition to run over the ground links the house to the 

 turf in very pleasing fashion. The dwarf Evergreens are look- 

 ing their pretfiest, sending out little tufts of yellow or blue 

 from every branch and preparing vigorously for that feathery 

 growth which will soon be so beautiful. 



Over the distant woodlands is creeping a soft green cloud, 

 which begins to hide the gray or reddish outlines of the trees ; 

 the Oaks and Maples are awakening, and the air is full of the 

 warbling of arriving birds. White buds show upon the Pear- 

 trees, and down the meadow all the brown grass is streaked 

 with green. Against the blue water of its winding stream the 

 yellow of the Willow-blossoms is apparent, and in moist spots 

 Ferns are uncurling. No longer we await the May, for with 

 her lovely smile of promise she is here. 



Hingham, Mass. M. C. Robbins. 



Notes of Mexican Travel. — IV. 



AROUND TOLUCA. 



pLEASANT are my memories of the summer weeks of 1892 

 ■*■ spent about Toluca, exploring the flora of the valley prai- 

 ries, of the mountain-forests and of the summit of the great 

 volcano. Coming from the region of San Luis Potosi, which 

 all the season lay dry and dormant under the white glare of a 

 pitiless sky, away from the view of bare and rugged hills beyond 

 wide stretches of plain — hills richly colored with tints of gray 

 and brown and purple, but a region of death to the starving 

 brutes which ranged over them in a vain quest for food — com- 

 ing tlirough the fertile valley of the Lerma, with its miles on 

 miles of corn-fields, coming up onto the high prairies in the 

 north-western part of the state of Mexico, rolling prairies and 

 gently sloping glades, covered with a fine, dense pasturage 



