striped with one color, the stripes run- 

 ning longitudinally through the petals. 

 The bizarres are such as have a pure 

 ground, marked as in the flakes, but with 

 two or three colors; this form possesses 

 the most fragrance^ especially when there 

 is a frequent recurrence of the stripes. 

 Lastly there are the picotees, having a 

 pure ground, each petal being bordered 

 with a band of color. This last form in- 

 cludes many of the rarest varieties and 

 the yellow picotee is famous in several 

 royal establishments. 



It is a peculiar fact that rain will in- 

 jure the colors of the more delicate va- 

 rieties, and the florist must shield the 

 opening flowers from direct sunlight if 

 he would obtain the best results. 



In the perfect flower the pod and calyx 

 should be long, the flower circular, not 



less than three inches in diameter, rising 

 gradually towards the center, so as to 

 form a sort of crown. The outer petals 

 should be large and few in number, ris- 

 ing slightly above the calyx and spread- 

 ing horizontally, the other petals being 

 regularly disposed above them, nearly 

 flat, diminishing in size towards the cen- 

 ter. The ground should be a pure color 

 and the petals wax-like. 



The Carnation is allied to the pink 

 family, and consequently is related to the 

 modest Indian pink, the Chinese pink and 

 the Sweet William. These lowly forms 

 doubtless nourish a secret pride in their 

 relationship to the illustrious head of the 

 house, concerning which Shakespeare 

 said, "The fairest flowers of the season 

 are our Carnations." 



Charles S. Raddin. 



WINTER SONG, 



Sing ho ! for the hilltop bold and bare, 



Where the bracing breezes blow ! 

 There's a frosty edge on the wintry air. 

 Exhilaration keen and rare 



That sets the heart aglow. 



Over the crest the snow lies deep. 



Over the brow of the hill. 

 Down below the woodlands sleep, 

 Blanketed well on the sloping steep 



'Neath a snow sheet white and chill. 



Sing ho, sing ho, for the galloping gale 



That sweeps the summit clear, 

 And drives the mass of icy shale 

 Into the pines, whose eery wail 



Fills timid souls with fear! 



There's that in the winter's whistling wind 



That stirs dead hearts to life, 

 And energy and health you'll find 

 In the breath of the breeze that's rough yet kind. 



That's keen as a surgeon's knife. 



— Frank Farrington. 



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