IN LONELY WAYS. 



FRANK H. SWEET. 



It is the unexpected that often gives one 

 the keenest pleasure; a native orchid in 

 an out of the way place in the woods, a 

 clump of swamp cheese bushes in full blos- 

 som at a sudden bend of the road, a wild 

 patch of gorgeous rhododendrons that the 

 wood prowler has never heard of before. 

 One does not have the anticipation of pleas- 

 ure ; but the sudden, joyous, unexpected 

 thrill which flashes over him fully compen- 

 sates for its absence. 



For this reason I like to hide rare bulbs 

 and plants in the most unlikely places ; in 

 the fence corners and in the midst of thick- 

 ets, along unsuspecting brooks and among 

 wild, shadowy ledges of rocks. In the 

 summer their blossoms will lie in wait for 

 me, and spring out at unexpected moments. 

 Their odors will meet me on my rambles 

 and their breath mingle with mine as I 

 lie on the bank watching the clouds or lis- 

 tening to the splash of trout which find that 

 the brook is not large enough to contain 

 their joy. 



If I were that rare combination, a mil- 

 lionaire and philanthropist, I should buy 

 a carload of choice bulbs and plants and 

 homestead them in the haunts of the ruffed 

 grouse and the gray rabbit. The mossy 

 rock, which has never seen aught except 

 wild creatures and flickering shadows, 

 should have a magnificent clump of aura- 

 tum lilies planted close beside its base; the 

 little brook, which sings lullabies from 

 morning till night and from night till morn- 

 ing, should have its banks so starred with 

 German and Japanese irises that its song 

 would henceforth proclaim something of 

 the joyousness that lies beyond its own 

 shadows; the bare, rocky hillside should 

 have its share of the treasures and the 

 swamp and the wornout, bushy pasture 

 should not be forgotten. As the years 

 would pass the rare bulbs and plants would 

 grow strong and increase and mingle their 

 leaves with with those of the natives. The 

 solitary man who rambled through the 

 woods, and the maiden who loved to 



botanize and gather rare plants, and the 

 child who loved to watch the birds and lis- 

 ten to the unknown language of the leaves, 

 would all feel the joyous thrill of dis- 

 covery. 



I would have the bulbs and plants in- 

 crease until each little shoot became a 

 clump, and each clump a mass or thicket. 

 I should make each swamp and dell and 

 rocky pasture a custodian of one or more 

 of the treasures; and each favored spot 

 should guard its secret carefully until the 

 bulbs and roots grew strong and sent forth 

 pioneer buds in search of the sunshine. 

 They should belong to everybody, and the 

 blossoms should be a signal that everybody 

 had come into the inheritance. 



There would be no difficulty about the 

 increase, for the selection would be care- 

 fully made. Hyacinths and other exclusive 

 or unacclimated foreigners would not be 

 accepted ; but there should be the rarest of 

 blue scillas along the bases of the ledges 

 and in the cosy nooks where the March sun 

 would be able to clear spaces for them in 

 the snow. Neighboring with them should 

 be the purest of white snowdrops, the rich- 

 est of yellow crocuses, and the sweetest of 

 pink daphnes. On the hill, in the valley, 

 and in the far away, silent places where 

 the loon builds her nest, should be fair 

 lilies and gorgeous azaleas, stately crown 

 imperials and modest, sweet scented lilies 

 of the valley. Every year would spread 

 and multiply them and every wayfarer who 

 chanced on their unexpected loveliness 

 would return home with another fair re- 

 membrance in his heart. 



I have in mind a small lily bulb which I 

 once planted in the shadow of a thicket 

 and forgot. A few years later I was de- 

 lighted to see an immense cluster of aura- 

 turn lilies peeping from the bushes. There 

 were 10 or 12 magnificent blossoms, on 

 stalks 4 or 5 feet high; and investigation 

 showed that the bulb had increased to 

 nearly 20; surely a valiant response to my 

 effort. 



A man who only works other people can 

 not be called a workingman. — Wine Re- 

 view. 



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