276 



KIDD'S OWN JOURNAL. 



ding, matter of fact practice can extract much 

 that is precious. But to return. 



In the establishment we speak of, there 

 were, for the accommodation of the hetero- 

 geneous mass of plants congregated, a host 

 of structures — stoves, wet and dry, orchid- 

 houses, greenhouses, pits, frames, and a whole 

 legion of nondescript articles : not forgetting 

 glass walls. As might be expected, there 

 was no arrangement in placing the buildings ; 

 they jostled each other, whichever way you 

 turned. Conservatory and potting-shed stood 

 side by side ; and if you set out with the 

 intention of visiting the orchid-house, you 

 stood a pretty good chance of stumbling 

 into the stoke hole. A guide, verbal or 

 otherwise, was absolutely necessary for a 

 successful perambulation. But as intricacy 

 is held as an essential in garden arrangement, 

 perhaps this might be considered a beauty. 

 The exterior gave one a correct idea of what 

 was to be expected within. Every available 

 nook in every house was laid under contribu- 

 tion as a receptacle for plants. Shelves 

 above you, shelves below you — on the left 

 hand, on the right hand, plants were crowded 

 — nay, crammed together ; and, to crown the 

 whole, vines from borders without darkened 

 the roof, and, in the forcing season, others in 

 pots usurped the few rays that would other- 

 wise have struggled through the front lights. 

 And under such circumstances as these, 

 plants were expected to thrive, too — and 

 develop their real beauties ; and so many of 

 them did. 



The conditions were congenial to numerous 

 species, but the majority were sorry things. 

 Long, watery shoots, with many leaves and 

 few flowers, in place of sturdy growths and 

 brilliant blossoms, met the eye in all direc- 

 tions. Most of the plants were one-sided; and 

 mildew, and scale, and bug, were apparent in 

 the axils of nearly every leaf, and among the 

 few heads of flowers that were produced. We 

 had the honor of being accompanied through 

 the houses and grounds by the proprietress 

 herself, who, we must in justice to other 

 parties concerned observe, was "her own 

 gardener." Often she stopped before some 

 fine species, and lamented that they did not 

 prove more satisfactory under the treatment. 

 Every cause but the right one was assigned 

 as a reason for her failure. " Water was not 

 given as she directed ;" " the soil was not 

 properly mixed ;" " the loam was not of the 

 best quality ;" " her directions were not fol- 

 lowed out in her absence," and so forth ; 

 while the true cause was apparent enough. 

 We ventured to suggest that a deficiency of 

 light had something to do with the matter ; 

 that too many plants were attempted to be 

 grown in such a limited space ; but our cice- 

 rone had an opinion of her own on those 

 points, and we were met with a decided ob- 



jection as to such an explanation being even 

 remotely probable. 



We must now beg the reader (after the 

 manner of the play bills) to imagine the lapse 

 of a year. We are again in the grounds, and 

 strolling through the houses. The proprie- 

 tress has quitted the scene of her labors ; 

 and the accumulated treasures are about to 

 be dispersed by the wand of the auctioneer. 

 There is a large assembly of buyers ;for here 

 are many rare plants. Representatives of the 

 Floras of almost every region of the globe are 

 congregated in the space of a few roods. 

 Many of the finer plants are destined to 

 occupy some newly-built plant-houses but 

 a few miles distant. These are of the best 

 construction, and a due regard to an uninter- 

 rupted transmission of light is provided for : 

 and, within, the plants are well cared for, and 

 ample space is permitted each specimen for 

 the display of its true character. 



Another season has passed, and again we 

 visit our old acquaintances. How would 

 their former mistress rejoice at the change 

 apparent in them ! Scarcely do we recognise 

 them in their improved appearance. It is 

 the season for many of them to be in bloom, 

 and so they are : not as they will be in a sea- 

 son or two hence, certainly, but yet very 

 beautiful. Amongst them is one that we 

 especially remember as having been lamented 

 over by its owner on our first acquaintance 

 with it, as never having afforded a solitary 

 blossom. It is a fine plant of Inga pulcher- 

 rima, covered with bunches of its scarlet fila- 

 ments, a very mass of beauty. 



" Truly," we exclaimed, apostrophising the 

 lovely object, u what a powerful lesson dost 

 thou teach on the influence of light !" 



[From the Gardeners 1 Journal.] 



WHAT I LOVE. 



BY JOHN CLABE. 



I love to see the forest maid 



Go in the pleasant day, 

 And jump to break an idle bough 



To drive the flies away. 



Her face is brown with open air, 

 And like the lily blooming ; 



But beauty, wb ether brown or fair, 

 Is always found with women. 



She stooped to tie her pattens up, 

 And showed a cleanly stocking ; 



The flowers made curtsies all the way, 

 Against her ancles knocking. 



She stoop'd to get the fox-glove bells 

 That grew among the bushes, 



And, careless, set her basket down, 

 And tied them up with rushes. 



Her face was ever in a smile, 



And brown and softly blooming ; — 



I often meet the scorn of man, 

 But welcome lives with women ! 



