ome 
Eschscholtzia. 
Convolvulus 
Minor. 
MY FLOWER GARDEN-. 
When we came to Wheatland, ten years ago, the 
large yard was barren—a few trees, Balm of Gilead, 
Cotton Woods, .some scraggy wild Plums, two Lilac 
switches, a patch of Tansy, bunch of Horseradish, a 
few Currant bushes and Pie-plant, being the sum of 
its adornment. The few Evergreens had been horned 
off by the cattle. The neighbors “ allowed it was a 
mighty purty place with so much shrubbery a 
growin’.” It was, comparatively; one farm only, 
having more. The fences were repaired and the gates 
kept shut. We planted all we brought 
with us, shrubs, roots, and bulbs; set out 
dozens of trees, and now have a beauti¬ 
ful yard, full of fruit and flowers. 
I had two long borders, a diamond 
and rock-bed, but they seemed a mere 
nothing in this large yard; beside, the 
love of flowers is like the love of money 
or greed for land, in one respect, at least; 
n» matter how many you have you 
always want a few more. 
After three years’ experience of the 
climate, I wasn’t afraid to try anything. 
One side of the yard was a large, open 
space, bare of trees; here I determined 
to have a flower-garden. There were 
many objections, of course. Mother 
said: “You have too much work 
already; just killing yourself; so much 
cooking and baking; what do you want 
with more flowers t” When you come 
to live on a farm and cook for Minnesota 
farm and harvest-hands, baking from 
thirty to forty loaves of bread a week, 
other food in proportion, you will under¬ 
stand the force of mother’s objection. 
Ugh! it.makes me shiver to think of it. 
Such voracious appetites as people do 
have in this bracing climate. I am not 
able to do the subject justice. My 
brother said: “You will find it a great 
tax on your time and strength;” but 
kindly offered to help lay it off. I re¬ 
membered the flower-garden my sister 
had at home, when I was a child; took 
the central design of that for my garden, 
twenty-five by thirty feet. One of the 
men scalped off the sod and wheeled it 
away; then dug up the ground; next 
wheeled on and spread over the surface 
twenty or more barrow-loads very rich, 
light soil. It was then raked thoroughly, 
about that. “Had to send to Vick for a dozen seed 
when you might have had a pint, by sending home, if 
you must go to cultivating Jimsons.” He admired 
them, or why did ho take the men out to see them. 
Or, “there’s the biggest Japan Pink, and the Bartonia 
is blowcd out (as Mary Lisabeth says); and the 
Gypsophila, the dearest, sweetest little thing; tiny, 
pink stars.” “You just must come out, and let the 
breakfast burn; who cares for the old breakfast; only 
come, do; won’t you, now?” So each morning, for 
many weeks, these were pleasant surprises. There 
was not a weed; and, with a push-hoe, I could go 
over the whole in an hour. Since then, each spring, 
for seven years, I have manured, spaded, raked, and 
Grass. 
Petunia. 
Asters. 
Salvia. 
Salvia. 
Salvia. 
Salvia. 
a spent hot-bed is excellent; a sprinkle of leached 
ashes is good; sweepings from the hen-house; liquid 
manure from the barn-yard (just the thing for the 
Balsams as they are in bud—then well mulched, and 
the bloom is superb); soot from the cooking-stove. 
Whenever I find extra good dirt, some of it goes to 
the garden, until everything “ laughs and grows fat,” 
blooming bounteously. In the fall, the dead stalks 
are gathered up and wheeled to the barn-yard; bien¬ 
nials and roots covered with coarse straw-litter; bulbs 
are stowed in the cellar, and I rest from my labors 
until another spring. 
Last year some beds were infested with worms and 
insects, eating the leaves and roots of some plants. I 
left all the dead flower stalks until 
spring; raked the whole garden, burning 
the trash on the beds; spread and spaded 
in the ashes; the result—not a bug or 
worm to be seen, not a plant destroyed. 
Chickens are excellent scavengers; they 
have free run of all my flowers; sel¬ 
dom harm anything, but do a world of 
good, as tliis ground abounds with bugs 
and things. Persons say to me, “We 
have no time to cultivate flowers; don’t 
know a thing about them,” when I offer 
them a few seeds. Try a few hardy 
kinds at first; suppose your success is 
not brilliant; try again; in every failure 
is the germ of success. Experience is a 
wonderful teacher, or how do you find 
time to care for all you have to do? 
Where there is a will, you know, there 
is always a way. An hour in the morn¬ 
ing, after the house is swept and dusted, 
before you begin to prepare dinner; a 
half hour when you arc waiting for the 
men to come from the field to dinner 
(wish there wasn’t so much cooking, any¬ 
way) ; another in the evening, and at 
odd times now and then, produce aston¬ 
ishing results. I cannot conceive of a 
home without flowers; it is as incom¬ 
plete as a man without a head, or a 
woman without a heart. Let us adorn 
and beautify home with these exquisite 
gifts of a kind and loving Father. 
Hortense Share. 
Scarlet 
Linum. 
Asters. 
Petunia. 
until fine and smooth. The beds and 
walks were marked off (according to my 
plan), and the ground was ready for the 
seeds; these I planted in a few days, having ar¬ 
ranged the manner during the winter, the more tender 
kinds being already up in the hot-bed. I had from 
Vick twenty choice kinds, and thirty-three (for one 
dollar) from-, Flushing, L. I. Nearly every 
seed came up; the plants flourished, spreading far and 
wide; we were astonished, not being used to the mar¬ 
vellous growths of this rich soil. The garden was a 
source of constant delight—so many new flowers. 
Every morning Bessie and Mary mult run out through 
the wet grass to see if anything new was out, rushing 
in with, “Oh, aunty, the Datura is out” (Jimson 
weed, their father called it). No end to the teasing 
•SSBJf) 
hoed it myself; altering the arrangement and group¬ 
ing of the flowers. Am not troubled with weeds, as 
none are allowed to seed. It has never had one mo¬ 
ment’s work from any one else. The only hard part 
is the spading; that does give an aching back (so does 
plenty other things not half so pleasant). “Why 
don’t I have some of the men do that?” Dear me! 
what work these rough Norwegians or Bohemians 
would make of these small beds; couldn’t keep to the 
pattern, you see. Might as well turn an elephant 
loose among them; so, per force, must do it myself, or 
give it up—a thing not to be thought of. I enrich the 
ground with anything but crude manure. That from 
Coxcombs. —In the February num¬ 
ber, 1873, of the Cabinet, I noticed 
that in reply to Miss F. Weed, as to 
whether Coxcomb could be dried so as 
to retain color, you stated “not in a sat¬ 
isfactory manner.” I had some crimson 
Coxcomb last year, and just before frost 
came I cut off a number of heads, dried 
them in a dark room, and they are as 
perfect in color as when growing in the 
garden. Last year was the first season I tried to 
raise flowers; I met with a great many failures, - and 
had quite a success with some plants, especially Cahna 
and Pansies. My Cannas were raised from the seed ; 
poured boiling water on them before planting; sprouted 
in a hot-bed, and though quite late in the season when 
set out, their growth was luxuriant. My Pansies were 
also started in a hot-bed; quite late when planted out, 
but commenced blooming in a short time; bloomed all 
summer and on into winter; gathered bouquet of 
them on the 13th of December; the largest blooms I 
ever saw. 
Mrs. Carrie M. Kelly. 
