IOO 
THE HEART OF A GARDEN 
lustrously milk-white, shot through with shifting flame, 
while, as for the deeper dyes, dark wine-colour with 
amethystine gleams, and a rich multitude of carbuncles 
and crimsons strike stately chords. 
Loitering among all this riot of fine, unfragrant 
autumnal flowers, it is with a sensible touch of regret 
that I realise afresh that the carnations and picotees are 
gone. The pretty annual Margarita , the fantastic 
Bizarres and Flakes, the dainty Fancies and Picotees, 
the lovely simplicities of the Selfs, all these are gone by 
with their glories of colour and perfume ; their withered 
brown heads have been duly shorn away by the in¬ 
exorable scissors, and the somewhat uninspiring task of 
layering is done. One thing at least is certain, and 
that is my firm determination to gather in a goodly 
store of unnamed seedlings from the expert’s laboratory 
in the spring; by reason, firstly, of the profuse generosity 
of their habit, secondly, because of the eternal fascina¬ 
tion—for me, at least—held by the unknown. In this 
matter there can be no question of a surprise that shall 
not be a happy one: in the seedling Carnation lottery 
it is all prizes and no blanks; the prizes may differ as 
to magnitude, but each will be well worth the growing. 
I sometimes think that the world in general is scarce 
sufficiently alive to the great and gracious ways of the 
clematis, or I should rather perhaps have said, to its 
fertile versatility and long fidelity. There are, of course, 
but few, if any, gardens that harbour not the better- 
known purple yackmanni with their wealth of blooms; 
but with the Viticella and the Lanuginosa groups the 
popular taste is less freely conversant. For my part, it 
