96 
JOURNAL OF HORTICULTURE AND COTTAGE GARDENER. 
January 31, 1895, 
A WOMAN’S THOUGHTS ON WOMAN’S WORK. 
It has often been a puzzle to me to see how little practical 
interest leisured women take in their gardens. True, they are 
fond of planning and of giving impossible orders, but when it 
comes to real work they are nowhere. There is a great tendency 
among women to prefer the house and household pursuits, and this 
is all very well in its way and very necessary too, but if only 
women would believe they have lungs which must materially 
benefit by fresh air, and muscles which would strengthen by use, 
we should see more of them abroad. 
There is in this case no need of smart garments or useless 
“ dressing up,” which must be gone through for a walk in frequented 
neighbourhoods or for the making of a round of calls; also, odd 
minutes may be utilised, and at first this is the better plan, till the 
body becomes accustomed to the change of exercise. In this 
climate a pair of really strong boots are a necessity, a short skirt 
desirable, and a shady hat. To everything there is a beginning, 
but to the woman who means work a failure is only an incentive to 
greater care and diligence. In some cases they may have someone 
who will direct their first efforts, but as a rule a gardener dislikes a 
woman “ messing ” about. Some small flower gardens may be 
entirely managed by a woman ; even grass cutting is made easy. 
An old lady friend, now too stiff for the machine, gets her strong, 
willing “general” to take that part of the work. 
The paths come first, and no one can go far wrong in the 
weeding of them—only be true, and go to the root of the matter. 
No chopping weeds off by the head. It is so satisfactory to get a 
really big weed uprooted ; to see its great fangs, and the hole it 
has left, that seems something done, and really as work nothing 
repays the willing novice much better. As the state of the door¬ 
step is said to indicate the state of the house so the paths do that 
of the garden. In some places not only is gravel dear but bad to 
meet with. Cherish what you have, keep it well raked up towards 
the centre. You must have a good water shed, and then you have 
always a dry promenade whatever the weather may be. If you 
have Box edgings there is another outlet for energy ; untrimmed, 
broken borderings look very bad, and has an old - fashioned 
formality about it. Nothing comes in more useful as a foundation 
for wreaths and crosses when other materials are not to be had. 
Beds have always a tendency to sink. My adviser says I have my 
beds too high ; let that be as it will, they look better than my 
neighbour’s, whose sometimes sink level with the border. It is a 
matter of taste what the beds are to be filled with, but it is not a 
matter of taste that the edges be kept neat. It is tedious to go 
down on your knees, and clip, clip, clip, but it is satisfactory in 
the end. 
Then bear in mind if you give nothing you have nothing. 
Town people are perforce obliged to depend on that evil-smelling 
stuff in bags obtainable from your florist; you country people if 
possessors of hens, pigs, or pigeons, are rich beyond dreams of 
avarice. If without offence to your neighbour you can get some 
sheep droppings or cow manure do so. After a long dull winter 
one looks forward with such pleasure to the simplest spring flowers, 
and it seems a pity they should not be found in all gardens. 
Aconites do so well even under big trees. Snowdrops spring up 
everywhere, except on the strongest clay. A bed of seedling 
Polyanthus is delightful. These planted in autumn need no further 
care till they have flowered, been divided, replanted in a cool 
situation to await a second autumn. If you are of a generous dis¬ 
position others will participate in your belongings, and you will 
have plenty to give and to spare. No spring garden is complete 
without Wallflowers, but see that the plants are short and sturdy. 
“ Planting out ’’ is an art. Visit some good garden, and use your 
eyes and observe the neat deft way in which the operation is carried 
out. A handy man will often pick up the knack directly, and so 
should a woman. 
Pruning, too, is quite a woman’s work, provided her heart is 
hard. A well-pruned Rose garden looks such a wilderness in 
March, as wheelbarrow after wheelbarrow of Rosewood goes away. 
No rule can be laid down for this work, practical observation is 
the only recipe and knowledge of the habit of the variety. 
Amateurs usually fail by doing too little, and leaving too much 
badly ripened wood and weak growths crowded together. A 
friend unused to Rose growing prayed her husband just to spare 
her one bed so that she might have a few early blooms. He was 
a silent man ; smiled, and did her bidding. She got her early 
blooms, but ch ! such frost-injured, insect-mangled specimens that 
she could not bear to look at them. Next year she used a sharp 
knife fearlessly, and then had “ glorious Roses.” 
Pricking out requires careful fingers, careful preparation of soil, 
careful watering afterwards. A fidgety sick man bothering about 
his seedling Primulas, his wife suggested her assistance. It was 
grudgingly received, and with special instructions she began her 
work. “Just see that the pan is moist enough for the plants to 
come out easily with little balls of earth.” “ Fill the pots (don’t 
forget the crocks) with one part soil from which the turf has 
been removed, one part decayed leaf mould, one part that stuff 
in a bag we got from Primrose Hill. Mix it well and let me see 
it first. When repotted water from the bottom, and perhaps you 
had better bring one or two up for me to look at.” “ Yes, they 
will do,” and they have done. That lesson was worth heaps of 
book learning. 
A garden is not prized so much by a real lover for the actual 
money value of the plants as from the associations. A root of 
crimson Anemone, from the old garden at home ; a yellow Crown 
Imperial, from a neighbour ; a bit of Bergamot, because prized in 
a story book ; Clove Pinks, the gift of an old servant ; Mrs» 
Sinkin, from “ Madam ” at the Hall ; Daffydowndillies, from 
Sherwood Forest ; Ferns and Wordsworth Poppies from the home 
of the Lake poets. All these, and a thousand others, go to make 
up the charm of one’s own garden. The foot of a garden wall 
adjoining the public road was always an eyesore and continual 
source of irritation from the weeds that infested it. They were 
difficult to uproot on account of the stony foundation. A happy 
thought struck the owner. Why not overcome the strong man with 
a stronger ? Get out as much weed as possible, then plant with 
the little frail and graceful Wordsworth Poppy, make a fringe of 
bright yellow and pale green. Once get that well established, and 
weeds may be defied. Then there is the care of the grass. A lawn 
infested with Plantain will always provide occupation. It is not a 
bad plan to drop a few grass seeds into the hole left by the 
removal of the root. Do not leave a fang if you can help it. 
Dandelions, too, may provide wholesome exercise, and the weeding 
of the Asparagus bed has dispelled ennui many a time. Often, 
too, there are creepers to train and tie, seeds to gather, dead Roses 
to remove, and always the earth’s heritage of weeds. 
In the days of long ago, when Gloire de Dijon and “ General 
Jacqueminot ” reigned supreme, the most charming garden 
and most redolent of sweet flowers was entirely managed by its 
mistress, and filled with standards of her own budding and flowers 
of her own raising. She had nothing but an old-fashioned trame 
or pit, but she did wonders. Her Christmas Roses and her 
summer Roses were the surprise of the neighbourhood, and her 
herbaceous border was a glory. From her many imbibed their 
first love of gardening. She had a wonderful charm for children, 
and gathered her young nieces and friends, who were only nieces 
by courtesy, and made them, whether they would or not, love 
the country and take interest and delight in their garden work. 
She has moved to a town, but you need only know the name of 
the terrace ; the house reveals itself. 
A word as to garden visitors (female). You have all in trim 
—your best blooms in their glory—your lawn like velvet, and you, 
in a moment of weakness, ask your friends. Before they have 
been in ten minutes you are provoked beyond endurance. “ How 
sweetly pretty ! How lovely ! Oh, where did you get that ?” 
and then in the same breath, “ Were you at the dance last night ? 
Did you hear of So-and-so’s engagement ? ” You show them a 
grand “Cleopatra.” They say they prefer W. A. Richardson. 
You point out a “ Victor Hugo,” but they retort that for sizo 
give them Magna Charta or Paul Neyron. Such folk are 
incurable, and must be answered according to their folly. 
In a village where the working people are born gardeners much 
pleasure is given and received by interchange of visits. There is 
always something to learn, and little gifts of plants and cuttings do 
more to cement real friendship than anything I know. A garden 
is common ground, and how our feet linger! Well, it is only 
nature. We are all sons of Adam, though some of us “ favour ” 
our father more than others. A garden gives an outlet for 
individual taste. A little eccentricity is always pleasing, and much 
Derbyshire spar. No two gardens will bear exactly the same 
treatment, soils, situation, and so many factors are at work. A few 
experiments tried at first will soon prove what is the most desirable 
kind of garden “ stock.” With a western exposure you must not 
look for glowing Rose beds, nor on strong clay will bulbs do well. 
Of course in the confines of a garden much may be done in the way 
of making soil, but there are often natural impediments that cannot 
be overcome. 
Those who have children, teach them the proper use of a garden. 
If they see you respect your plants and treat them lovingly they 
will do the same ; children are the grandest imitators. I cannot 
remember how young some children were when they borrowed 
their father’s exhibition boxes and had flower shows of their own, 
and were cruelly critical about their father’s productions. These 
children were never shut out of the garden for fear of the damage 
they might do. It never occurred to them to injure what their 
parents loved, and I am sure the eldest boy knew sooner than any- 
