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Gjbecorationsoy- 'JacK GKCaitley, (Rose 



Roseberry Gardens is not a historic account of an actual nursery, although I 

 dare say it is typical of other days and many of the older nurseries, when the 

 nursery business was more leisurely and perhaps more scholarly than to-day. To one who has ever been in touch with 

 the growing of plants there is a poetry and charm in the life of the place which no other business possesses. And if the reader 

 finds a little of the sheer happiness there is in having to do with the exquisite young life, the story will have been worth while. 



ROSEBERRY GARDENS is an 

 adorable place of a May morn- 

 ing. The brown old earth 

 fairly sings with color. 

 The flat plowed land, a few days ago 

 stretched acre after acre in dull monotony 

 of nursery squares, has changed as 

 suddenly as if the old earth were Cin- 

 derella and May were the Fairy God- 

 mother. The commonplace has van- 

 ished. In its stead is a wonderful garden 

 laid out on a splendid scale: a great 

 parterre, where broad grass paths sep- 

 arate wide beds of radiant color- — white, 

 through all the shades of rose to deepest 

 crimson, and from white again through 

 all the yellows to flame color and deepest 

 orange — the great squares are ablaze 

 with color. The only green is the green 

 of the broad grass paths, the young 

 foliage of the oaks in the distance, and 

 the smooth, close-clipped hemlock hedge 

 that divides the azalea plantation from 

 the drive. 



And the peculiar charm of it all is 

 that these brilliant parterres of marvel- 

 ous color are not dominated by a huge, 

 impressive pile of a house — a mansion 

 which seems to say, with a patronizing 

 wave of the hand toward the garden, 

 "Oh yes, very handsome. These are 

 my clothes; this is my setting — a fairly 

 suitable accompaniment to my magni- 

 ficence." 



At Roseberry Gardens it is the plants 

 that are in possession; the flaming 

 azaleas, the magnolias and all the lovely 

 host that are the masters. As for build- 

 ings, there is an unpretentious little 

 affair, low and almost dingy, scarcely to 

 be noticed if it were not for the brilliant 

 magnolia at its door; behind it stretches 

 a long, low packing shed and in its side 

 white-washed greenhouses bury their 

 heads. But as for these, "Merely our 

 caretakers and nurses," say the gardens. 

 Instead of the lady of the manor 

 walking along the broad paths of 

 magnificent parterre surveying her pos- 

 session, it would be elderlv workmen in 



blue blouses and overalls, that you would 

 meet of a May morning, probably each 

 with a bit of a limp, for rheumatism is 

 apt to touch an old gardener. Or you 

 might see Rudolph Trommel, short and 

 broad, with a beard like a gnome, and a 

 basket on his arm going about among 

 the plants like an elderly Troll, clipping 

 here and there, peering carefully at each 

 over his gold-rimmed spectacles — look- 

 ing for treasure also, in veritable Troll- 

 fashion, for a wonderful new color or 

 some variation of keen interest, now and 

 then touching or lifting the lovely heads 

 with adoring fingers and wonderful 

 gentleness. 



Nowhere, I believe, are plants so 

 loved as in a nursery. Here they have 

 nothing of the flippant, casual treatment 

 that falls to their lot elsewhere. The 

 very fact that they are to stay but for a 

 few years serves but to endear them the 

 more: for, like the young folk in a 

 family, as soon as they are well-grown 

 they must leave the home to make then- 

 way in the world and take their chance 

 of treatment; while the gardeners are 

 like the parents who must stay at home 

 and watch from a distance. 



"How could you, Michael?" said old 

 Rudolph reproachfully to the white- 

 haired Irishman who, marshalling two 

 workmen, was approaching along the 

 grass path in the morning when our 

 story begins. The workmen were push- 

 ing a small hand-cart loaded with young 

 magnolias. 



"How c'ud I what, Mr. Trommel?" 

 asked the man addressed as Michael, 

 cheerful and ruddy of countenance, with 

 a mustache like Prince Bismarck's. The 

 red kerchief knotted around his neck 

 served to strengthen the impression of 

 the Iron Chancellor. 



"How could you sell that Gloria 

 Mundi?" 



"Indeed, and what was it here for?" 

 queried Michael. "And 'tis gone to 

 Mr. Geor-rge Gold's place, and 'tis a 

 foine position it will have there. If it 

 had been the Glory av Hiven I'd have 

 sold it!" 



119 



"It was the finest Gloria Mundi we 

 had!" said old Rudolph sadly, as he 

 turned again to his work. 



To a horticulturist, like Rudolph 

 Trommel, plants are not for personal 

 aggrandizement, not to make his place 

 look handsome, nor even to show his 

 skill as a gardener. They are as dear 

 children, to be petted, loved, cared for, 

 each with its own peculiar gifts; each 

 new one a thing of wonderful possi- 

 bilities. There is the same intense 

 happiness in its success, the same eager 

 interest in its future, the same poignant 

 disappointment in its failure that a 

 parent has for his child. 



It is for this reason, because of this 

 attitude, that the gardens of horticul- 

 turists and plant lovers are not often 

 notable for their "effects," and that it 

 is easy enough for a landscape gardener 

 to pick flaws in them. He may care no 

 more for putting a plant in an effective 

 position than a mother cares for placing 

 a child where it will look decorative: 

 what interests him is the plant's com- 

 fort, well-being and happiness. Old 

 Rudolph, for instance, would see with 

 pleasure that a Judas tree showed 

 wonderfully at a distance with the 

 delicate white of Halesia for company. 

 He may even have advised placing it 

 there. But he cares exactly as much for 

 the Judas tree in a row with a dozen of 

 its fellows. -"Of course," he would say, 

 "he knew the child would look well in 

 that position"; he can see it in dozens 

 of other admirable positions — if one 

 cares to put it there ! 



On this particular May morning, after 

 leaving old Trommel, the white-haired 

 Irishman whom we saw before led his 

 workmen and the cart at a brisk pace 

 along the path past the bright azaleas 

 through the hemlock gateway and along 

 the narrow drive to the little office- 

 building. As the small cavalcade reached 

 it the door opened and a young girl 

 appeared on the threshold. 



"Oh, Michael! I want vou dread- 

 fully!" 



Michael stopped. 



