420 
JOURNAL OF HORTICULTURE AND COTTAGE GARDENER. 
[ November , 1883. 
wonderfully substantial blooms. The florets are flat, and at the lower 
part of the bloom strangely reflexed or drooping, imparting a distinct 
appearance to the bloom. 
M. Burnet. —This, though about two years old, is yet but little known, 
It is a fine variety, the full blooms having jagged, delicate pink-tinted 
flat florets. A charming shade of colour. 
Many more of the last three or four years’ novelties are grown, but 
the above will suffice to indicate that the Japanese group is receiving 
much attention at the hands of continental raisers, to whom we are 
indebted for most of the varieties. 
MR. J. STEVENS. 
In this nursery a good general collection is grown, over 200 varieties 
being represented, and the plants generally are in admirable condition, 
strong in growth, with substantial, handsome, well-furnished blooms 
that scarcely require the exercise of the dresser’s art to fit them for the 
exhibition board. All the standard varieties are grown, and grown well, 
but the useful Elaine is a feature of great interest. A large house has 
been filled with plants of these, and blooms were obtained early in 
October in considerable numbers, while now a second crop of smaller 
blooms promises another profitable supply for a week or two. Princess 
Teck is another variety grown in large numbers, and is especially valued 
for its late-flowering habit and the delicate tint of the blooms. It is 
also very free, and is undoubtedly of great decorative value. Numerous 
seedlings are being tried, and more will be heard of them in the future ; 
but one that has been well tested deserves notice here, as it is likely to 
become a general favourite when Mr. Stevens places it in commerce. 
This is named 
Stevens' No. 1.—It is a reflexed flower of a rich crimson maroon or 
chocolate colour, somewhat like the handsome Japanese P6re Delaux. 
The blooms are about 2^ to 3 inches in diameter, the florets flat and 
slightly incurving in the centre, showing the golden under side. It is 
very full, and the plant is surprisingly floriferous. This was certificated 
at Kensington on Tuesday and the name altered by the Committee to 
“George Stevens.” 
Chrysanthemums are not the only specialty at St. John’s Nursery, as 
Mr. George’s seedling Abutilons occupy considerable space, Mr. Stevens 
having the whole stock of the latest batch. Clove Carnations are also 
grown in great quantities, no less than forty thousand plants being 
included in the stock.— L. Castle. 
WINTERING STRAWBERRIES IN POTS. 
The best and most natural way of wintering Strawberries in pots is to 
plunge them a little below the rims in sifted coal ashes out of doors. 
In every garden a gravelled space sufficiently high to prevent the 
lodgement of water should be set apart for this and other purposes, and 
be enclosed by rough boards 8 or 9 inches deep nailed to short piles 
(the inner side of the latter) driven into the ground at short intervals, so 
as to make a sort of shallow frame. A little coal ashes should then be 
spread over the gravel, and the pots, as already stated, plunged below 
the rims closely together in the same material, a little of which should 
be spread over the balls of earth and roots as the work proceeds, thus 
securing both roots and pots from the frost. But in the event of severe 
weather it will be advisable to slightly cover the plants with dry fern. 
This, however, should be removed on every favourable opportunity. The 
“ drying-off system ” of wintering Strawberries in pots cannot be too 
strongly condemned, seeing that it is so thoroughly antagonistic to the 
condition under which the plant lives and flourishes in its natural state. 
Those not having the gravel space and boards at command can effectively 
winter their Strawberry plants on a dry south border by spreading the 
ashes over the necessary space, standing the pots thereon in a straight 
line at a certain distance—say 32 feet from the wall, filling in the space 
between the pots with coal ashes as set forth above, and enclosing them 
with a bank of the same dust. No time should be lost in attending to 
this simple though important operation.—H. W. W. 
ROSE CUTTINGS—TEA ROSES. 
I see that Mr. W. Boyes is hardy enough to say that Roses on their 
own roots do not bloom as freely as when budded on the Manetti, Briar 
cuttings, or seedling Briars ; forgetting, perhaps, how I was “ sat upon ” 
by my friendly opponents “A Judge,” and Mr. Sanders, some six months 
ago, for asserting the same. 
I was obstinate enough to say I was still unconvinced ; but still I 
could not help thinking, during certain sultry days last August, that if 
I could have set “A Judge” and Mr. Sanders each in a comfortable 
chair in the shade, with “something soothing ” handy on a neat table, in 
full view of my struggles and grovellings and perspirings in budding a 
very thick patch of Briar cuttings, their revenge would have been ample, 
and even tinged with compassion. 
Thorns I do not mind, what rosarian does P I am afraid I looked no 
further into a certain treatise on Roses when I saw a recommendation to 
provide a pair of thick gloves before budding; and I do not grumble 
much at the position required in budding dwarfs. Luckily my waist is 
unchanged during the last twenty years, though that 1^- inch over 6 feet 
is hard to stow away in a horizontal position without inconvenience or 
doing damage to something. No ; it was the flies which so nearly con¬ 
verted me, and constantly dinned in my ears the weariness and unpro¬ 
fitableness of buddiDg, and the coolness, comfort, and delight of cuttings. 
No creature, I verily believe, has a keener instinct as to when both a 
man’s hands are irretrievably engaged than the common summer fly ; 
and whenever an unusually active and pertinacious swarm of them, 
which flourished at that time, saw me curled and twisted up in thorns in 
that sunny spot, in the agony of getting the bud in, and not a chance of 
defence, then into my ear they would get. For some time I wondered, 
with as much calmness as possible, what on earth should make flies so- 
anxious to get into my ear ; but at last I recognised that it was only to 
din into my brain, “ Try cuttings : no flies in October.” 
I am trying them ; and come in, from sticking them in by the score, 
to read how a gentleman who recommends cuttings admits they do not 
bloom as freely as budded plants. Well, I have tried both. My cuttings 
are in, and all the flies of August did not prevent me from finishing my 
budding. If success is commensurate with toil, I know which will tuns 
out the best. 
Unlike “A. M. B.,” I find that Madame Falcot does stick and damp- 
in wet weather, as does certainly Marie Yan Houtte. Madame Falcot is 
generally represented as an improved Safrano—that is, it is fuller ; but 
Madame Falcot is, to my mind, not full enough for a summer Rose, and 
too full for a late autumn one. Safrano is very thin, and for that reason 
is, I think, the best of late autumn yellow Roses, because it will open 
when no other Rose will. If, during the first fortnight in November, yon 
want a good yellow bud, you may be thankful if you have a plant of 
Safrano on a wall to go to. Mine never fails me at that season, and for 
that purpose alone I grow and value it. 
I wish our respected Secretary had given a fuller criticism of the new 
Rose, Her Majesty, in his review of the past season. I think many' 
would have been glad to know if he considered it might justly be called 
“coarse.” 
Will someone be kind enough to give a character to Madame Cusm, 
(Tea), a fine bloom of which was exhibited by Mr. G. Paul at South 
Kensington ? 
I am sorry no one has set my mind at rest on the subject of Beech 
leaves, on which I wrote a few weeks ago.—A. F. M. 
THE DAIRYMAN’S ORCHARD. 
Near the top of the long straight road that leads to Uxbridge there- 
is a small Ivy-covered cottage. The door, painted in two tones of green, 
has a bright brass knocker; the jambs, window frames, and doorsteps 
are a spotless white, and on each of the four window-sills in front there 
is a charming little group of Fuchsias and Geraniums. A strip of flower- 
garden engirdles the front, and on each side the clean asphalted path 
there is a large Hydrangea in a pot. The cottage itself is a plain little 
Noah’s ark-like structure, but the Ivy is always neatly trimmed, and Ivy 
is the horticultural charity which cover sometimes a multitude of builders’ 
sins. The little house is always bright and cheerful to look at, comfort¬ 
able and cozy as a chaffinch’s nest among the budding Hawthorns. 
The dairyman is perhaps sixty, but hale and hearty, and in addition 
to his milk business he found time to plant and cultivate the acre and a- 
quarter of garden ground adjoining the cottage. It is chiefly on this- 
account that I wish to speak. His special hobby is fruit-growing— 
orchard fruits. About ten years ago the little estate came into the 
market, and as the dairyman’s family had lived thereon for more than 
twenty years he was naturally anxious about his business and his trees. 
“ They’il help to keep us, missus,” he used to say, “if we can keep the- 
cottage.” Honest, industrious, thrifty, however, he hoarded every penny 
in order to purchase the cottage and garden. A friend who accompanied 
him to Tokenhouse Yard on the day of the sale describes his anxiety 
when, glancing from one to another with up-lifted hammer, the auctioneer- 
repeated, with what appeared to the dairyman, unnecessary emphasis, 
“ For the third and last time, gentlemen, £375 only! A five-roomed 
cottage, sheds, and an acre and a quarter of orcharding planted with 
thriving fruit trees. Why, gentlemen, the crop of fruit is an independence. 
£375, gentlemen. Have you all done?” The dairyman's heart beat- 
quick and audibly as he thought for a moment on the “ thriving fruit 
trees,” every one of them worked by his own hands, and tended almost, 
as carefully as his family of rosy girls and boys. At last the ivory 
hammer tapped the desk and the torturing suspense was at an end. “ It’& 
yours, sir,” said the auctioneer. “What name, please?” “William 
Templer,” was the reply. “ Are you prepared to pay the deposit ?” said 
the salesman, glancing furtively at the homely corduroys and polished 
bluchers. “ Pay it all,” said the dairyman; “ here, sir, tek it out of that,” - 
and he put into the clerk’s hands a roll of notes. “ There’s £400 there.”' 
And then he looked across at his friend, and his honest face came all! 
undone, and something dimmed his eyes for a moment, as he said, with 
feelings which none but he and his could fathom—“ I’ve saved my trees, 
Naylor, thank God, I’ve saved my trees.” 
“ Yes, sir,” said he, as I walked round with him the other day under 
the drooping boughs loaded with clusters of ripening fruit—lemon and 
russet, green and crimson and gold—a charming feature in the autumn 
landscape, “ I worked ’em all myself.” It is more than probable that- 
the impetus given to orchard-fruit cultm-e by the present fruitful season, 
and the quite wonderful and charming display of Apples brought together 
at Chiswick recently, will result in a considerable extension and increase- 
of orchards. It is to be hoped that it will ere long be no longer necessary' 
to send to the continent and America for over three millions sterling 
worth of fruit that might be grown at home. “ I worked ’em all myself,”’ 
the dairyman repeated, “ but I made a mistake in not buying ready-made- 
trees from the nurseries. I lost, I reckon, ten years by that.” 
But the orchard itself. Perhaps a few entries from the dairyman's 
mental note-book maybe of service to intending planters. The orchard. 
