THE STORY OF 1 



derstand that we came to gladden the hearts of all 

 who see us, to make new friends and cheer our old 

 ones. 



"Busy, care-worn people pause to look at us. 



'AILING ARBUTUS. 87 



friends of childhood days, and as they gently touch 

 our dainty blossoms, lo ! for them, 



" ' The soft south wind of memory blows.' " 



G. A. WOOLSON. 



ARBUTUS IN THE GARDEN. 



HENRY WARD BEECHER's ESTIMATE. 



It is my good fortune to know the home of the 

 trailing arbutus (Epii^rra repms), one of the most 

 exquisite of nature's fondlings. It grows in the 

 greatest profusion and luxuriance, where we can pick 

 again and again until we have satisfied our own 

 grasping desires and those of our then numerous 

 friends. What a treat is a day in the woods, wan- 

 dering up and down — searching, plucking and ar- 

 ranging the dainty blossoms ; some pure white, some 

 white, suffused with pink, and some, where they have 

 had clear sunshine, a clear deep rose color ; and all 

 so pure that they can lay their faces on the earth 

 and remain unsullied. 



The winter has been kind to these delicate, though 

 hardy forms. Hardy they are in the sense that 

 they will endure a severe winter, but at the expense 

 of foliage and flowers ; they live, but do not thrive 

 luxuriantly. After a severe winter the foliage is 

 browned to a crisp, the flowers have a starved, with- 

 ered look ; they scorn to resent the treatment of 

 mother nature, and frown rather than smile at the 

 vernal sunshine. I would like to describe this plant, 

 but cannot do it justice, so borrow from Henry 

 Ward Beecher, whose love and enthusiasm for this 

 flower was unbounded. 



" Who would suspect by the leaf what a rare delicacy 

 was to be in the blossom ? Like some people of plain 

 and hard exterior, but of sweet disposition, it is all the 

 more pleasant by surprise of contrast. All winter long 

 this little thing must have slumbered with dreams at least 

 of spring. It has waited for no pioneer to guide, but 



started of its own self, and led the way for all the flowers 

 on the hillside. 



"The odor of the arbutus is exquisite, and as delicate 

 as the plant is modest. Some flowers seem to make an 

 impression on you. They stare at you ; they dazzle 

 your eyes. If you smell them, they overfill your sense 

 with fragrance, They leave nothing for your gentleness 

 and generosity, but do everything themselves. But this 

 sweet nestler of the hillside is so secluded, half-covered 

 with russet leaves, that you would not suspect its graces 

 did you not stop to uncover the vine, to lift it up, and 

 then you espy its secluded beauty. If you smell it, at 

 first it seems hardly to have an odor, but there steals 

 out of it at length the finest, rarest scent, that rather ex- 

 cites than satisfies your sense. It is coy, without design- 

 ing to be so, and its reserve plays on the imagination 

 far more than could a more positive way." 



The question is often asked. Can the arbutus 

 be cultivated in the garden ? Certainly, if properly 

 attempted. Take up a large clump in autumn, or 

 when possible in winter ; without much disturbance 

 of roots, transfer to a partially shaded position ; 

 protect with leaves, as nature does, or keep in a 

 cold-frame, protectecL from sun and cold, and it will 

 bloom profusely. The English gardeners propagate 

 it as freely as they do the azalea, and with as great 

 success. But don't ! Let this beautiful sweet child 

 of the wood nestle in the bed that nature has pre- 

 pared for it. Like the thrush, it belongs to the 

 wood by inheritance ; let it enjoy its secluded home 

 in its own unostentatious way. C. L. A. 



