March 13. 
THE COTTAGE GARDENER. 
459 
willow hath still a grace of its own as it sweeps the bare 
snows. And these comical old applo-trees ! why, in summer 
they look like so many plump, green cushions, one as much 
like another as possible! but under the revealing light of 
winter every characteristic twist and jerk stands disclosed. 
One might moralise on this; how affliction, which strips 
us of all ornaments and accessions, and brings us down to 
the permanent and solid wood of our nature, develops such 
wide differences in people, • who before seemed not much 
distinct. 
But here! our pony’s feet are now clinking on the icy 
path under the shadow of the white pines of “ our wood-lot.” 
The path runs into a deep hollow, and on either side rise 
slopes dark and sheltered with the fragrant white pine. 
White pines are favourites with us for many good reasons. 
We love their balsamic breath, the long, slender needles of 
their leaves, and above all, the constant sybillino whisperings 
that never cease among their branches. In summer the 
ground beneath them is paven with a soft and cleanly mat¬ 
ting of their last year’s leaves, and then their talking seems 
to be of coolness ever dwelling far up in their fringy, waving 
hollows. And now, in winter time, we find the same smooth 
floor, for the heavy curtains above shut out the snow, and 
the same voices whisper of shelter and quiet. “ You are 
welcome,” they say, “ the north is gone to sleep; we are 
rocking him in our cradles ! sit down and be quiet from the 
cold.” At the feet of these slumberous old pines we find 
many of our last summer’s friends looking as good as new. 
The small, round-leafed partridge-berry weaves its viny mat, 
and lays out its scarlet fruit; and here are blackberry vines 
with leaves still green, though with a bluish tint, not unlike 
what invades mortal noses in such weather. Here, too, 
are the bright, varnished leaves of the Indian pine, and 
the feathery green of which our Christmas garlands are 
made; and here undaunted, though frozen to the very 
heart this cold day, is many another leafy thing which we 
met last summer rejoicing each in its own peculiar flower. 
What names they have received from scientific god-fathers 
at the botanic fount, we know not; we have always known 
them by fairy nick-names of our own—the pet names of en¬ 
dearment which lie between nature’s children and us in her 
domestic circle. 
There is something peculiarly sweet to us about a certain 
mystical dreaminess and obscurity in these wild-wood tribes, 
which we never wish to have brought out into the daylight 
of absolute knowledge. Every one of them was a self- 
discovered treasure of our childhood, as much our own as if 
God had made it on purpose and presented it, and it was 
ever a part of the joy to think we had found something that 
no one else knew, and so musing on them we gave them 
names in our heart. 
We search about amid the sere, yellow skeletons of last 
summer’s ferns, if haply winter have forgotten one green 
leaf for our home-vase—in vain we rake, freezing our fingers 
through our fur gloves—there is not one. An icicle has 
pierced every heart, and there is no fem leaves except those 
miniature ones which each plant is holding in its heart, to 
be sent up in next summer’s hour of joy. But here are 
mosses—tufts of all sorts. The white, crisp and crumbling, 
fair as winter frost-work, and here the feathery green of 
which French milliners make moss-rose beads, and here 
the cup-moss—these we gather with some care, frozen as 
they are to the wintry earth. 
But now Herr Professor shouts, “ Look, look ! here is the 
wild-oat.” Know then, friends all, that our Andover this 
winter actually is honoured by the presence of a veritable 
beast of this species, and driven down from northern lati¬ 
tudes by the cold, she has done our poor wood-lot the 
honour to make it her rendezvous. There she goes to be 
sure i—trotting off—-a fine, large creature, about twice the 
size of our fireside-hero, “ Scip,” whom we consider an 
extraordinary specimen in his way. She has a fine, open 
countenance, decidedly pussyish, her body striped like a 
tiger, with white breast, face, and feet, and a beautiful long 
tail, much flatter than that of a domestic cat. 
Really my heart warms to the creature, as she gracefully 
puts off through tho snow, and I begin to wish that I could 
subdue her taste for live game and raw meat, and reconcile 
her to our hearth-rug and domestic circle. As it is, I sup¬ 
pose the woodsmen will consider her a fair- mark for their 
guns, which as yet she has avoided by that lady-like, 
coquettish slide and lithe spring of hers. Long may you 
do so, Pussy! my queen of the forest; yon are far too 
pretty to be shot for that skin of yours, that’s a fact! 
Now stumbling up this ridge, we come to a little patch of 
hemlocks, spreading out their green wings and making in 
the ravine a deep shelter, where many a green springing 
thing is standing, and where we gain much for our home 
vases. These pines are motherly creatures; one can think 
how it must rejoice the heart of a partridge or a rabbit to 
come from the dry, whistling sweep of a deciduous forest 
under the home-like shadow of their branches. “ As for 
the stork, the fir trees are her house,” says the Hebrew 
poet, and our fir trees this winter give shelter to much small 
game. Often on the light-fallen snow I meet their little 
foot-prints, ’they have a naive, helpless, innocent appear¬ 
ance, these little tracks, that softens my heart like a child’s 
foot-print. Not one of them is forgotten of our Father, and 
therefore I remember them kindly. 
And now with cold toes and fingers, and arms full of leafy 
treasures, we plod our way back to the old chaise. A plea¬ 
sant song is in my ears from this old wood-lot—it speaks of 
green and cheerful patience in life’s hard weather. Not a 
scowling, sullen endurance, not a despairing, hand-dropping 
resignation, but a heart cheerfulness that holds on to every 
leaf, and being, and flower, and bravely smiles and keeps 
green when frozen to the very heart, knowing that tho 
winter is but for a season, and that the sunshine and bird 
singings shall return, and the last year’s dry flower-stall 
give place to the risen, glorified flower.— H. B. S. 
NOTES FROM PARIS.—No. 8. 
PUNICA GRANATUM. 
As I mentioned in a former communication that the 
Pomegranates were very plentiful here, I will take the 
present opportunity of adding a few particulars respecting the 
cultivation of the tree (Punica granatum) round Paris and 
the more southern departments of France ; for in point of 
ornament it surpasses.some of the most popular half hardy 
shrubs grown at the present day in the gardens of England, 
where it is but rarely seen. It has the elegant habit of the 
common my rile, and is of the same natural order ; but the 
foliage is finer, and of a more lively green, while its rich, scarlet 
blossoms, chaste in outline and singular in construction, 
render it strikingly beautiful either as as a single specimen, 
or the centre-piece of a group. The Pomegranate tree is 
rarely fruited near Paris unless grown against a south wall, 
and even then the fruit does not reach anything like 
maturity, though it forms a curiosity, and adds to the 
beauty of the tree, which, for this purpose, is grown as an 
espalier, and on a border of rich, light soil. As the fruit is 
invariably produced at the extremities of tho branches, 
pruning is but seldom resorted to, unless to keep the tree 
within bounds. 
But though only grown for ornament near Paris, Punica 
granatum produces tolerable fruit in the south of France, 
either as an espalier or a standard; but the berries are 
said to be less highly-flavoured than with the Pomegranates 
imported from Spain. In the southern departments, indeed, 
it is so common, that it is sometimes used for the purpose 
of ornamental hedges near dwelling-houses, as it is easily 
propagated and grows freely. 
It may be shortly described as a large shrub, with oblong, 
entire, opposite and alternate leaves, about an inch-and-a- 
half long. The flowers grow in clusters of three or four 
at the summits of the branches, and are remarkable for 
deep, rich, scarlet or vermilion colour, and their bright 
yellow stamens ; the latter, however, are not present in the 
double-flowered varieties. Its usual period of flowering is 
from June to September, and the blossoms last three or 
four days. When grown in France, the fruit measures 
about four inches in diameter; but imported from Spain 
its diameter is often six inches. The outer skin is thick, 
leathery, deep yellow, tinged and dotted with red. Tho 
interior of the fruit is composed of unequal cells, which con¬ 
tain a number of berries like rod currants, in size and 
