Jantjaby, 1912 



THE GARDEN MAGAZINE 



259 



Typical sage brush land that was so full of alkali that nothing else would grow in it at first 



few that sprouted grew a little while as 

 sickly yellow plants, and died. The ten- 

 der roots of trees and shrubs were not 

 able to withstand it. Well, we had our 

 little yellow rose, and we knew things would 

 grow, for a few pioneers in our little town 

 had thrifty, beautiful yards. Three times 

 that spring I renewed my flower trenches 

 with sand and manure, for I was bound 

 to have some flowers, but none would be 

 persuaded to grow. And our lawn — 

 the velvety green sward of our dreams! 

 It was a dappled patch of muddy alkali 

 — the irrigating brought great amounts 

 to the surface. 



A neighbor told us not to be discouraged, 

 that flooding our place once a week would 

 help wash away surplus alkali. So all 

 summer we allowed the water to run for 

 hours each week, and by fall I know we 

 must have drained away a large amount. 

 Then came more manure, more sand; 

 more elbow grease, more planning. In 

 addition to the alkali there was the coarse 

 salt grass to fight; its tenacious tough 

 spreading roots were very hard to pull 

 from the soil, and broken roots left in the 

 ground immediately started new growth 

 which left to itself would choke out other 

 vegetation. Irrigation and fertilization 

 gave it new lease of life and it must con- 

 stantly be fought until entirely banished. 



As the summer wore by, it seemed as 

 if I could no longer stand so desolate a 

 yard, and one day I received an inspira- 

 tion. About a block from our home was 

 a gloriously green patch of sod, mostly 

 white clover, that had grown over the 

 ditch banks and along one side of the 

 street, where an over-flowing ditch had 

 kept it green. Years ago the seed had 

 doubtless been washed down from some 

 aspiring and perspiring neighbor's lawn, 

 made a wee start and finally spread as 

 it was that year. 



"Peggy," I said to myself, "we'll have 

 a lawn yet, if only the size of a tea-towel." 

 With the help of a small brother I dug 

 a piece of the sod perhaps two feet square, 

 hauled it home in the wheelbarrow, scooped 

 out a spot in the centre of the small would- 

 be-lawn that was directly in front of our 

 house, and carefully, oh so carefully placed 

 the sod. We brought another piece and 



I can tell you it was back-breaking work. 

 But next day we brought another and 

 still another, and by the end of the week 

 we had a tiny, little lawn. Then big 

 brother caught the enthusiasm, and after 

 bank hours he dug and carried sod with 

 great energy and at the end of two weeks 

 we had an excellent start for our lawn — 

 only 18 ft. by 18 ft. it is true — but fairly 

 level and fresh green! By the following 

 spring it was a really creditable little lawn ! 



The intervening winter months soothed 

 our disappointment, and the alluring air 

 of spring aroused our enthusiasm. Our 

 neighbors helped us much; we learned 

 never to flood our rows when irrigating, 

 but to always sub-irrigate. Water al- 

 lowed to run over the rows caused the soil 

 to pack and form a hard glaze, through 

 which no delicate sprout could creep. 

 Again, too frequent irrigation, allowing 

 the water to stand for many hours, brought 

 to the surface quantities of alkali from a 

 great depth. We learned that liberal 

 applications of land plaster helped neutral- 

 ize the alkali, and we learned the value of 

 continual cultivation. And our success 

 the second season was that a few vege- 

 tables, some nasturtiums and a honeysuckle, 

 three roses and three trees lived. 



But the third year things looked really 

 promising. My sweet peas were glorious! 



Our seed sown lawns had at last made 

 good progress; several Gruss an Teplitz 

 and Madam Plantier roses lived, while 

 our vegetable garden cheated China John 

 and the village market out of many a 

 dime and quarter. 



It is now six years since we started to 

 redeem the alkali flat. Honeysuckle and 

 Virginia creeper climb luxuriously over 

 the porch pillars. The syringa, eight 

 feet tall, seems to be vying with the yellow 

 and blush rose bushes, of the same height, 

 for all were absolute masses of bloom this 

 year, and are a part of a fifty foot row of 

 shrubs, including spireas, snowballs, lilacs, 

 and Japanese barberry. 



But the roses are my special pride. 

 Frau Karl Drushki, White Maman Cochet, 

 Souvenir de Prest. Carnot, Marie Van 

 Houtte, Miss Kate Moulton, Richmond 

 and Clio are especially fine. My carna- 

 tions and chrysanthemums won first prize 

 at our county fair last year, and this 

 year give promise of much greater per- 

 fection. Pink, cream, yellow, gold and 

 bronze cactus dahlias nod their dainty, 

 fluffy heads in proud disdain at a row of 

 their coarser more bold show brothers. 

 Of other flowers, I have perhaps forty 

 different varieties. 



Disappointments and despair are not 

 yet lacking; some plants still refuse to 

 come and dwell with me — each seed that 

 has grown represents hundreds that have 

 gone to alkali graves, and often now with- 

 out any warning, some cherished plant 

 turns a sickly yellowish white — sure 

 sign of alkali poisoning — drops its leaves 

 and dies. 



But when things do get started — how 

 they succeed in this soil! and the yields 

 are very large. On four hills of cantaloupe 

 may be counted more than fifty fruits 

 as large or larger than a pint cup. Tomato 

 stems are loaded with large ripening fruit. 

 My "sage brush palm" (a big Russian 

 sunflower) seems to be rivaling Jack's 

 famous bean stalk in trying to reach the 

 skies — its own golden leaves far more 

 beautiful than any gold Jack rescued from 

 the ferocious Giant. 



But after the alkali was washed out — a matter of two years' work — it produced vegetables that really 

 were worth while and made gardening a delight 



