Radies 
*toral ilttliifipt anil Pictorkil Home fiomjvEMiiom 
[initntu inrbaiin^ 
MY SITTING-ROOM. 
Mrs. Reader, will you take a walk with me ? I 
know a place where one can pass a pleasant hour even 
in a dull December day like this. It shall not be a 
long walk, so that, even though it should not give the 
same pleasure to you that it does to me, it will not he 
wearisome, I trust. It is by no means a paradise, this 
place to which I would take you, yet lying toward 
the south as it does, and protected on the north and 
west, it is warm and bright and—sunny, I was about 
to say, but a glance at the sky forbids that; however, 
it is altogether a very pleasant spot, so that, though 
I take this walk almost every day, yet I am nevei 
weary of it, indeed, am always ready to go 
again, especially if I can have a companion. 
Assuming, then, that you cannot resist so charm¬ 
ing a prospect, I will imagine you at my side 
and that we are off for a tour—around my room. 
This room is at once sitting-room, library, 
and conservatory. As I told you, it has a 
southern exposure, these two large, broad win¬ 
dows giving abundance of light, and air, too ; rather 
more of the latter than we like, but we comfort our¬ 
selves with the thought that fresh air is healthful. 
Here, by this westernmost of the two, you see my 
stand of plants; but never mind them just now; 1 
want you to look at this fine lot of Callas. That 
stool was formerly a music-stool, but has been diverted 
from its original use and made to do duty as a pedestal 
for my Callas. The pot they are in is nothing but an 
old soup-tureen. It was chosen for that purpose 
when we started them tills fall (we turn them down 
on their side through the summer and take them up 
about the first of September) for its size, and because 
it had no place for drainage. I thought I would imi¬ 
tate its natural condition as nearly as possible, and see 
what the effect would be. Knowing that in its native 
place (the banks of the Nile) it was subject to an 
overflow during a portion of each year, and at the 
same time received its greatest heat, I accordingly 
placed it in a lightsoil of muck, with sand enough 
to give it some body, in this tureen where the 
water could stand on it. I added the water 
gradually at first till the earth was covered. 
Now, you see from, the three bulbs there are 
fifteen good leaves, and any number of little 
bulbs are starting up. They are looking so 
finely that I think I must have hit on the right 
way of treating them. 
Hot water? Well, yes; occasionally I make 
the water for all the plants a little warmer than 
my hand, but I do not dare to pour very hot 
water on these for fear, of injuring the stalks. 
L ist winter, when I had them in pots with saucer, I 
used to pour boiling water into the saucer, and so I do 
now with my Oleanders. Besides keeping the roots 
constantly wet, as these plants seem to require, it gives 
them heat at the bottom, where it is better than at 
the top, I think. They are growing so fast and so 
thriftily that I am looking to find a bud as each new 
leaf comes out. 
Before we leave this window just notice that basket 
above the Calla. Nothing but Oxalis? No, that is 
all I want in it. Two years ago, I had one bulb in 
that basket that had been taken from a crock the first 
of October. About the first of November it came 
into flower, and bloomed until we stopped it in April 
or May, by cutting off its supply of water. All winter 
long that basket was a mass of those delicate pink 
blossoms. If you have not had them you can have 
no idea how the little things enlivened the room. It 
is such a bright pink, and it blooms so constantly. 
Through last summer I gave them only enough water 
to sustain them, purposely keeping them back that 
they might lose no strength in blooming when we had 
other flowers and did not need them. I fear now I 
did not bring them forward soon enough, for you see 
they have only just now begun to show buds, though 
the plant looks finely otherwise. 
Now, come over to this other window; I want you 
to see my Cannas. 
I have nothing that gives me 
Flower Stand with Rock Work, Ferns, Etc. 
more satisfaction; they are sure to bloom, and are so 
brilliant and showy. This bowl that holds them is 
nothing but an old butter-bowl. You see I have 
nothing in it but the Cannas, and German Ivy in the 
edge. I wish you could have seen it last winter, Mrs. 
Reader; it stood over there behind that door. Not 
light enough ? 0, yes; this Ivy does better where 
the sun does not shine directly on it. I had only a 
few Canna roots in the fall, but I put part of them in 
this and set slips of Ivy around the edge thickly, as you 
see here. Then I plunged one pot of Callas in the 
center. There was a root of Achyranthus, too, and 
one of the white-leaved plants, a Centaurea or a Cin¬ 
eraria, I don’t know which. Well, Mrs. Reader, you 
have no idea how much that was admired. I kept 
the Ivy headed back so that it grew thick and bushy, 
and the leaves did not fall off as they are apt to do 
when it is allowed to run long. The Canna sent up 
two or three flower-stalks, and one of them was out at 
the same time as the Calla. Yes, you may well say 
so; they were lovely together. The contrast of the 
brilliant scarlet and the pure white was beautiful. 
In the spring I took out the Calla and turned it 
down beside the house to rest; the Cannas I took out 
to plant in a group with Ricini; then filled in with 
suitable vines and plants, a Heliotrope and Begonia in 
the centre, and set it out on its standard in the garden 
for a vase. I ascribe its beauty entirely to the daily 
(or evening) waterings it received, and to the use of a 
super-phosphate. I don’t know what it is. It is sold 
here in town as “ super-phosphate.” I suppose from 
its name it is a preparation of some minerals, but what 
materials of that kingdom can bo combined to 
produce such an odor I can’t imagine. 
This fall I emptied the bowl and filled it with 
fresh earth, light and rich; then after dividing 
the Canna roots I put in as many as it would 
hold- 
-0, there must have been a dozen or two- 
leaving only space around the edge for these slips 
of Ivy. I prefer to start my Ivy from slips. I 
know it does not look as well for a time, but is better 
in the end; it is not as apt to drop its leaves as that 
started from roots. I cut a branch into two, or at 
most three buds, and set one in the earth to form the 
root, and one above to grow. My success was so 
good last winter, with a few Cannas, that I wanted 
as many as I could get this winter; they require so 
little care, and repay it so well in flowers, that they 
are better worth housing than many things considered 
more choice. 
Here you see are a lot of small things, young 
plants mostly. I took slips in the summer of all my 
Geraniums, Pelargoniums, &c., that I wanted for 
winter-blooming. My experience has been—and I 
have heard the same from others—that cuttings taken 
the last week in August are more likely to give 
satisfaction than old roots; though, if they are kept 
back through the summer and not allowed to bloom, 
they may do something in the winter. I keep 
these small pots standing in a box of sand; they 
do not dry out as they otherwise would. 
Before leaving this window I want to call your 
attention to'the hanging basket. First, you see 
all around the outside I have stuck slips of the 
ivy and this little vine—I don’t know what it 
is, I have heard it called “gooseberry vine.” 
Inside I have placed around the edge Coliseum 
Ivy, an English Ivy, a couple of slips of the 
Tradescantia Zebrina and a Dew-plant, with Mau- 
randya to run up the wires. In the center are 
two Achyranthes, a Cupliea, Scarlet Geranium, 
a root of the ornamental grass used so much for 
this purpose, and a Begonia. Isn’t that a collection 
for one basket ? O, and there are four Nemophilas 
that I transplanted from the garden the other day, 
when the snow blew off. If everything continues to 
thrive as it does now, it will be very handsome in 
three or four weeks. As we turn away just notice 
that vine above you, looped back over those pictures; 
you recognize it, of course—the Inch-plant. It has 
several names, Wandering Jew, Joint-plant, &c. 
And now, Mrs. Reader, having completed our little 
tour, I shall take the liberty of returning you by the 
same conveyance that brought you here—our imagina¬ 
tion—to your own fireside, craving pardon for so un¬ 
ceremoniously dropping you. C. Oaks. 
