March, 1920 
33 
Slower (Grower 
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MRS. AUSTIN’S TALKS 
: T Written expressly for The Flower Grower. ] 
At the Grand Canyon. 
UNUSUAL INTERIOR DECORA- 
TIONS. 
Tick-tick-e-ty-tick. Surely 
a familiar sound, and rais- 
ing my head from the pil- 
low of my berth, I saw the 
driving, beating sleety snow 
that was tapping at my 
window. Oh, I had thought 
we were getting away from 
all that, and away down in Arizona, 
too, but it seemed that the nearer we 
were to our sunny goal, California, the 
colder and more uncertain the weather 
became. 
Changing cars in blinding snow and 
the darkness of early morning, we 
hummed on, the gray dawn revealing 
pine clad mountains through which 
we were passing in swift ascent. 
“G-r-a-n-d C-a-n-y-o-n, see it in a few 
minutes, if there’s no fog,” called out 
the conductor in sing-song tones, and 
there was great craning of necks only 
to meet with disappointment. 
We were soon off the train and 
scrambling up the many steps that led 
to beautiful El Tovar Hotel, located 
near the head of Bright Angel Trail. 
Here we were informed that storms 
with such heavy snowfall were of rare 
occurrence and that we were really be- 
ing treated to a sight seldom privileged 
the average tourist. With no sign of 
the storm abating we resigned our- 
selves to our fate which was far from 
being unpleasant for the El Tovar is 
not unlike a village with community 
service and interests, and while enjoy- 
ing the cheering warmth of blazing 
pine knots in the huge fireplace of the 
Rendezvous, we found old friends from 
Ohio and made new acquaintances 
from other states and countries. 
It was quite a treat to actually see 
your favorite movie star and observe 
that she ate, walked, and appeared 
generally much like the average wo- 
man. 
Most interesting to me were the in- 
terior decorations of this wonderful 
lodge in the mountains. There were 
mounted head of the buffalo, mountain 
sheep, deer, elk and moose mingled 
with Indian and Mexican pottery. In 
the art rooms were beautiful paintings 
offered for sale, and others on exhibi- 
tion in the public rooms, but those 
partaking of a floral nature, while 
quite unusual were in perfect harmony 
with the dark log walls of the interior 
and a fair example of making the most 
of what one has in a land far removed 
from flowers. 
Arranged in the form of huge bou- 
quets in curious receptacles, festooned 
over the various openings, softening 
the lines of recessed windows stuck in 
the uneven log walls, in fact it seemed 
wherever anything could be securely 
fastened, were draped branches and 
trailing vines. Perhaps the most fa- 
miliar to the average eastener were 
the long trailing vines of ordinary 
hops, gracefully jointer min- 
gled with various pines. 
Pinyon Pine, Western Yel- 
low and the Long leaved 
Pine, brightened with Blaze 
Grass in scarlet and green. 
The scarlet berried Pepper 
Grass and the Sages of pur- 
ple green and gray, with 
blue berried Juniper and 
long cones, measuring 15 
inches and over, of the 
Sugar Pine. There were many of the 
berried branches of the Pepper tree so 
common in California and probably 
brought from there. 
All the vines and branches had been 
cut in October, placed where they 
would be most effective as decorations. 
They dried slowly and would remain 
in place a year. 
Table flowers in the dining room 
consisted mostly of Stocks, Carnations 
and Geranium plants. 
The following forenoon brought the 
welcome sunshine. With its first ray 
I ran upstairs for my wraps and found 
myself gasping for breath. I had for- 
gotten that we were over seven thou- 
sand feet above sea level. 
A snowplow had cleared the way 
and in biting cold, we took the auto 
rim ride at the edge of the Canyon ; 
beheld the scenic wonder in all its 
gorgeousness of color and fleeting 
cloudlets, and the Colorado river so 
closely resembling a silvery ribbon 
that it seemed almost impossible to 
believe it a roaring tumult three hun- 
dred feet wide. 
CALIFORNIA IN MID-WINTER. 
Thus far, my general glimpse, mostly 
from autos, has convinced me that the 
January sojourner is forbidden most of 
the floral beauty, for aside from such 
garden flowers as Geraniums, Calla 
Lilies, and the charming Bouganvilla 
which is everywhere a beautiful sheet 
of cerise, nearly everything seems dor- 
mant. But a mocking bird is singing 
in the Pepper tree by my window, the 
sun is shining warmly and I am con- 
tent. 
Mrs. A. H. Austin. 
The Glad Philosopher’s 
Musings. 
It is regrettable that the flower that 
enjoys the distinction of being the first 
to bloom in the spring should bear a 
most unromantic name and be further 
handicapped with a very offensive odor. 
The Skunk Cabbage, whose technical 
name is Symplocarpasfaetidus, is a mem- 
ber of the Arum family, and although 
very near akin to the Calla, was much 
less favored when the charms were be- 
ing bestowed at the creation, and conse- 
quently has not made as great a hit 
with the flower-loving public as its 
lovely sister. But, while the Skunk 
Cabbage may be no more fragrant 
than a Dutch lunch or a steerage cabin 
at the end of a rough voyage, yet 
there is entrancing beauty in the jewel- 
studded lavender-flesh colored perfect 
flowers that grow, each upon a finger- 
like spadix within a greenish, leathery- 
leaved spathe, suggestive of some 
hidden grotto in an enchanted fairy 
land ; and it will well repay anyone 
who has never seen it to visit some 
swamp or sluggish streamside where 
it grows, in March, when the shell-like 
spathes, shaped like monk’s hoods and 
aesthetically decorated with purple, 
green and yellow, all blended and 
streaked with a peculiar charm, have 
emerged and stand proudly erect to 
herald the fact that spring is again re- 
turning. 
What is the first sign of spring? 
That would be, indeed, a hard question 
to answer, for, as Thoreau wrote, “ No 
mortal is alert enough to be at the first 
dawn of spring.” It cannot be the 
blossoming of the witch-hazel, for while 
its flowers are abundantly found in the 
woods in January, they are the last of 
the season’s flowers instead of the first, 
since the witch-hazel comes into bloom 
in October and November. It may be 
the cawing of the crows that through 
the winter have been quiet in their 
wooded retreat ; or the honking of the 
wild geese going north in great trains 
overhead ; or it may be the dripping of 
the icicles at night, for icicles are the 
product of late winter, and their drip, 
drip, drip, at night is an unmistakable 
token of overcoming warmth. While 
the snow still lingers, the catkins of 
the willows and the birches begin to 
swell and burst ; the chickadees and 
juncoes come out from their winter 
seclusion in the woods; the song spar- 
row opens the year’s season of song ; 
and the bee and the mourning cloak 
butterfly appear. The mottled hoods 
of the skunk-cabbage emerge from the 
swampy places, and soon nature’s 
winter tourists begin to arrive, the 
procession headed by the robin and 
the bluebird ; but which of the two ar- 
rives first, must be, as it always has 
been, a question for argument. In their 
wake comes that detestable bird with 
the harsh voice that has been likened 
to the squeak of a rusty wheelbarrow, 
the purple grackle, our common city 
blackbird, who has no friends and, 
moreover, deserves to have none. By 
this time signs that are unmistakable 
are appearing in great profusion, and 
every department of nature seems to 
be scrambling to make its next im- 
portant announcement. The appear- 
ance of the transient fox-sparrow, the 
purple finch and the Peabody bird ; 
the hepatica, the bloodroot and the 
trailing arbutus ; the fiddleheads of the 
cinnamon fern ; and the peeping chorus 
of the hylas, are but few of the many 
signs that spring is already here, and 
only needs the appearance of the organ 
grinder to fully establish the fact. 
The Glad Philosopher. 
Attention is called to the American 
Gladiolus Society announcements on 
pages 32 and 34. 
