October 7, 189 1.] 



Garden and Forest. 



47i 



I used to wonder why farmers were always behindhand with 

 their work, and, while apparently idle part of their time, were 

 driven to death for about two-thirds of the year ; but I have 

 discovered that the weather is responsible for a good deal, 

 first by being cold, and perhaps wet in the spring, so that the 

 ground cannot be tilled until late, and then suddenly sending 

 everything ahead by a few unseasonable days of heat and sun- 

 shine. Then there is a skurry for the hitherto impracticable 

 digging of the vegetable-garden, a headlong rush to get the 

 seeds in ; the grass, which always interferes at unseasonable 

 moments, demands the lawn-mower, and will not wait a 

 minute. The shrubs that you have been waiting to move until 

 the weather should be mild enough to permit your superin- 

 tending the operation (one can cope with a piercing east wind 

 for this purpose, but not with a north-west snow-storm), shake 

 off their icicles, and all at once begin to leaf out ; in a day or 

 two it will be too late. If there is a tree that you have in- 

 tended to plant at this season the complications are increased, 

 for setting a tree properly is a work of time, and delay here is 

 dangerous. 



The perennials need overhauling and replanting in the 

 flower-garden ; the weeds are rushing ahead and choking 

 everything ; you want your man to attend to them when he 

 has to be putting in Peas and Potatoes for your future sus- 

 tenance. 



The whole spring is one breathless moment, through which 

 you are rushed helter-skelter, leaving half your needs unat- 

 tended to ; and while you are still endeavoring to catch up with 

 the work, all of a sudden our headlong summer bounces into 

 haying-time, and the hapless beautifier is worse off than ever. 

 . Of what account are trees and shrubs and flowers, or even 

 the ever-clamoring lawn itself, when the fields are to be shorn, 

 and possible thunder-storms lurk low along the horizon ? This 

 is the weeds' moment, and they avail themselves of it promptly. 

 Up comes the Chickweed among the Peas and Corn ; the 

 flower-garden fairly bristles with Plaintains and Mallows, and 

 the paths are slippery with Purslane. On the lawn the Dande- 

 lions begin to intrude, and go to seed when they are only an 

 inch high, lying down deceitfully under the lawn-mower, and 

 poking up their white plumes the minute it has passed, in the 

 most imperturbable manner. 



It is of no use to summon any one. " That grass must be 

 cut to-day," or "the hay must be turned, or forked over, or 

 got in, or whatever " — there is no appeal, harvest-claims take 

 precedence, and the weeds nod their heads at each other, and 

 say '* Come along ! " and life is to them a beautiful holiday. 



By the time the last load of hay has been safely stowed away 

 these same weeds have to be coped with, for they have be- 

 come a forest, and that still further postpones the time when 

 the aesthetic side of your place can really have any considera- 

 tion given to it. At last, when you do get round to it, it is too 

 late to do anything, and one can only sit down and make plans 

 for another season, which will again be buried out of sight in 

 the rush which is sure of a periodical return. 



For this reason August is a month which I delight in, for 

 then there is a moment's breathing-space before the fruit-har- 

 vest and the terrible "second crop " are again upon the carpet. 

 It is a good time for grading and sodding before the autumn 

 rains. With care and a ball of earth, some of the hardy shrubs 

 can be moved ; if it has been a dry summer, now is the chance 

 to put in some evergreens and to remodel your beds of dwarfs. 

 But no sooner do we get fairly to work, and the general effect 

 begins to improve and ideas to take shape, than the marsh, 

 which usually claims the whole late fall and the months of 

 March and April, puts in an appeal for drainage, and, presto ! 

 the men who were engaged in ornamental work are whisked 

 away, and you can only see the tops of their heads above the 

 edge of a pile of dirt, as they burrow their way along an un- 

 sightly ditch. 



Then come the pears and apples. Your own fruit is a fine 

 thing to have in theory, beautiful to look forward to, some- 

 thing to be proud of, but it is a tremendous burden when it 

 comes. The gathering is an important labor, but taking care 

 of it when it is gathered is infinitely worse. The pears, espe- 

 cially, must be watched daily, turned and selected, and the 

 refuse rejected, till their owner would be happier if he never 

 saw a Bartlett or a Jargonelle again. The early apples, wel- 

 come and useful as they are, demand the closest attention, 

 and it is not until the last Russet is gathered and barreled and 

 stowed away in the cellar for winter use, that the amateur 

 farmer can have an easy mind. 



Perhaps it would be wiser to choose between ornamental and 

 useful management of a place to begin with, and content your- 

 self with either a farm, or a garden, as the case might be ; but 

 in this event, though one would probably have better results 



to show, he would miss much of the fun of the more helter- 

 skelter methods of landscape-practice, as well as the profits 

 of orderly market-gardening, which can never be very success- 

 ful in the hands of amateurs. There is, however, a sense of 

 profit in your own garden as an accessory, whatever statistics 

 show, which is not to be foregone ; and, as to the pleasure of 

 getting trees and shrubs in their proper places, who that has 

 read these papers can doubt that they are a source of amuse- 

 ment and instruction alike, even to the most unpractical of 

 their protectors ? 



The problems of the old place will continue to develop and 

 add puzzle to puzzle in our uninstructed minds ; we may pay 

 dear for our whistle, but we shall have the whistle anyhow. 

 After a few more years of experiment and failure, or success, 

 as the wheel turns, we shall probably come to the conclusion 

 to let the grass and shrubs grow as they will under the trees, 

 and let the rest go, which will, I am disposed to think, be 

 wholly to the advantage of the looker-on. But while some 

 vestige of vigor is left to us we shall think the puzzle part 

 more interesting than the solution, and so struggle happily on, 

 setting for ourselves ingenious examples, to be painfully 

 worked out perhaps to a wrong result. Interest in the place 

 will be less when we can no longer tinker at it to advantage, 

 but to that excitement will possibly succeed the calm enjoy- 

 ment of those who sit under the tree they have planted, and 

 partake of the fruits of their own vine. 



As we look up to-day to the trees, upon whose tops we could 

 look down three years ago, we begin to realize the profit of 

 our labors, and to feel that we may even live to take pride in 

 them. The birds which sing in their branches, and build 

 their nests among the twigs, thank us sweetly for the shelter 

 thus provided, though their harmonious chatter adds to the 

 precariousness of a morning nap. The shrubs expand healthily, 

 the flowers we have planted flaunt gayly, the vines are 

 climbing to the roof-tree. The spot not long ago so desolate 

 and unpromising is now sheltered and verdant. The dull red 

 Avails of the house have taken on a mantle of green, as it be- 

 gins to nestle into the shadow of the up-reaching branches that 

 will, ere long, overtop its chimneys. The raw freshness has 

 largely disappeared, the new place is melting into the old, and 

 in a few years more people will have forgotten, as they so 

 soon do, the former conditions, and will cease to realize the 

 importance of the changes made. 



The beauty of stately expanses, of deep solitudes, of exten- 

 sive lawns, and broad park-like spaces, we can never attain, 

 but travelers on the village highway will look kindly through 

 the overarching trees and say, " A pleasant home is there, and 

 a fair outlook on a quiet scene." 



Already the Willows of the boundary stretch up to hide 

 us from the rear. The Pines are showing dark once more 

 against the hill sun-browned by the September sun. Yeln 

 low leaves are shining on the Elms and Birches, and the 

 shrill wind streaks the green grass with bright-hued foliage 

 torn from the Maple-boughs. The gay-colored blossoms of 

 autumn flowers gleam from the shrubberies, and the low- 

 declining sun casts long shadows across the turf. Soon will a 

 nipping frost bestrew the lawn with wrecks of summer glory ; 

 the birds are gathering for their southern flight ; the year is 

 past its prime. A few short weeks of hectic color, and then — 

 the end, the sleep, the long dull silence of winter, the sheets of 

 snow, the chains of ice that bind the earth until her re- 

 awakening. 



How swift the silent succession of the months ! September 

 seems to tread upon the train of June, it is so quickly here, so 

 quickly gone. The Golden-rod is the first plume of the year's 

 hearse, yet when its earliest yellow feathers wave we burn un- 

 der the hot breath of summer, but ere they lose all their gold 

 the hand of death is on the grass, and the brown leaves have 

 fallen. 



A cold rain patters on the gravel walk, and the branches of 

 the trees are dripping as they hang unstirred. The sky is 

 gloomy and leaden — one vast gray cloud sullenly enwraps 

 the heavens. There is no hope, no outlook ; all is sad and 

 drear — rain overhead, a wet earth under foot. Summer has 

 gone ; the chill of autumn is here. But hark ! what is the 

 murmur ? It is the north-west wind blowing his distant horn, 

 and in a twinkling the leaden skies are broken with windows 

 of light. The gray scud whisks up toward the zenith, the wet 

 trees shake off their burden and wave joyfully in the keen 

 breeze. October comes ! What though his tramp is over the 

 dead leaves, he comes like a warrior from battle, fresh and 

 strong, inspiriting and brave. " Be not cast down ! " he cries, 

 "by the death of fair summer. Bold winter succeeds to the 

 throne. He is a king worth having, and his reign shall restore 

 your vigor, men of the north ! and help to make you what you 



