130 MY GROWING GARDEN 



puts it. With their colors in all the cyanic range 

 of pink, purple, crimson and white; with their 

 forms of flatness or roundness, of regularity or 

 informality, of singleness or doubleness; with their 

 accommodating disposition as to transplanting, 

 soil and blooming, it would be difficult to name 

 any more desirable annual. Last year it was the 

 "King" varieties that pleased us most, but all 

 were good to see, good to have and good to give 

 away. The seed was sown in mid-March, in the 

 neighbor's greenhouse, and the little seedlings 

 transplanted twice. My son is rather an aster 

 crank; and he seems to think that the half-trowelful 

 of wood-ashes he digs into the ground around each 

 plant when the asters are put where they are to 

 bloom is of real value. 



There is a nasty, agile and persistent bug that 

 bothers the China aster. If and when he comes, 

 war must be declared at once, with no parleying 

 and no diplomatic hedging or "watchful waiting." 

 A can with an inch of kerosene in it; a careful, 

 quick shake of the plant so that the shiny black 

 little devil drops headlong into it — and he is dead. 

 Early in the morning is best for the funeral, because 

 the corpse-elect is less gymnastic before the sun is 

 high. But any time will do for the massacre, and 

 every time is best until all are dead. It is a per- 



