Ibt RURAL NEW-YORKER 
961 
Wild Flower Garden 
Poets sing of old gardens, artists paint 
New England gardens, books and maga¬ 
zines devote pages to rose gardens, formal 
gardens, annual and perennial flower gar¬ 
dens, and even vegetable gardens have 
their place in the hall of beauty, for the 
heroine of a recent novel is made to state 
that “cabbages are beautiful,” but seldom 
are we told of that most charming one of 
all, a wild flower garden. What a com¬ 
fort a well-established wild flower gar¬ 
den might be in our old age, when we 
are too infirm and feeble to go tramping 
off to the fields and woods when we feel 
the urge of Springtime. The surround¬ 
ings may not be so interesting, but the 
flowers themselves will be just as beauti¬ 
ful blooming under the old apple tree 
near the house as they are in their native 
woods. This Spring, when it rains day 
after day, so even the children cannot 
find a suitable time to go to the woods, 
can you imagine anything more satisfying 
than a clump of Hepaticas, bloodroot, 
jack-in-the-pulpit and Trillium in our 
own backyard? We may run out between 
showers to look at them, and remind our¬ 
selves that this rain is good for wild flow¬ 
ers even if it does interfere with Spring 
planting. 
The wild flowers will grow best in 
some shady spot where grass and culti¬ 
vated flowers will not flourish, and the 
space should be capable of enlargement 
so that new treasures may be added from 
time to time. The plants may be dug up 
with spade and trowel, leaving plenty 
of the woods earth around the roots, 
wrapped in burlap, and must be planted 
as soon as possible. After planting they 
should be watered and protected from the 
sunlight for a few days, and in the Au¬ 
tumn they should have a covering of 
leaves such as Nature spreads over them 
in their home in the forest. 
One wild-flower enthusiast has a bor¬ 
der along the north side of 'her house of 
many varieties of ferns brought with 
much labor from the rocky side of a near¬ 
by ravine; then comes a row of yellow 
lady's-slippers, and at the outer edge a 
row of Hepaticas; the blossoms of the 
Hepaticas and lady’s-slippers are a joy 
for a long time in the Spring, and the 
ferns and fresh green‘leaves of the He¬ 
paticas are beautiful all Summer. 
The trailing arbutus, “the sweetest 
flower that grows,” is the favorite of 
everyone who has lived in a locality 
where it thrives, but unfortunately it 
grows only on poor, acid soil, usually on 
the banks of a ravine. Many fp time as 
a child to obtain the fragrant pink blos¬ 
soms I have risked breaking my neck, 
climbing up the steep rocky banks of 
ravines which flow into Lake Keuka, that 
lake whose waters are bluer, whose shores 
are more picturesque and whose vine¬ 
yard-clad hills are the most beautiful of 
any in the Finger Lake region. In later 
years I picked it on the hills “far above 
Cayuga’s waters,” but a recent magazine 
article states that in this region around 
Cornell University, where it was former¬ 
ly so plentiful, the plant is now prac¬ 
tically extinct, within a large radius of 
Ithaca. This is not quite true, however, 
for I know of one place within a very 
few miles of the city where it may be 
found in abundance, but I am selfishly 
glad that the general public has not dis¬ 
covered this secret. There is no need of 
this exquisite flower being exterminated 
if everyone would learn to clip the blos¬ 
soms with scissors and not tear out the 
trailing vine, but it is almost impossible 
to guard it in its native environment, and 
still more impossible to bring it to our 
own grounds to conserve it there, for it 
does not take kindly to being transplant¬ 
ed. It is said that a government botanist 
has succeeded in doing it by transporting 
plenty of the thin acid woods soil with 
the plant, and keeping it covered with 
leaves for an entire season. 
But if every region cannot boast of the 
arbutus and the lady’s-slipper, the He- 
patica we have always with us, more 
fragrant and with deeper shadings of 
blue and pink in some localities than 
others, but always beautiful. They are 
probably the most satisfactory and easiest 
of all wild flowers to transplant. Each 
Spring we usually select a few of the 
prettiest ones we find, place the plants in 
low jars or bowls in the house until they 
have finished blooming, then set them out 
in the ground, and the next Spring they 
gladden our hearts with their delicate 
blossoms. 
The white Trillium, the wake-robin, 
whose name is much more attractive than 
its rank odor, the blood-root from which 
the Indians made their war paint, the 
jack-in-the-pulpit, which is a near cousin 
to the ealla lily and whose red berries 
make a brilliant spot of color in the early 
Fall; wild ginger, Dutchman’s breeches 
and squirrel corn, which, like a pair of 
twins, resemble each other so closely that 
they can be distinguished apart only when 
together, and the whole family of violets, 
can all be transplanted as easily as the 
Hepaticas. 
If your garden lies beside a small creek 
or pond, plant along its bank some blue 
flag for beauty, some jewel weed or 
touch-me-not for the children, some mint 
for mint sauce and flavoring fruit punch, 
some marsh marigold or cowslips for 
Spring greens, and some watercress for 
salads. These plants all transplant easily 
and like to live with their feet in or near 
the water. The watercress is rather hard 
.to keep in bounds, however, as it grows 
so rapidly it soon stops up a small 
stream. 
The adder’s tongue, which is also 
called the dog-tooth violet, or more ap¬ 
propriately the trout or fawn lily, is not 
so easily grown, probably because it takes 
considerable strength to dig up its long 
root, and because the new plants grow 
from little bulb-like cormels. There are 
many other common wild flowers that are 
well worth attempting to add to our gar¬ 
den. Among those that bloom in the 
Spring are the false Solomon’s seal, 
which is a tall plant with white flowers ; 
the true Solomon’s seal, which is also 
tall, with greenish bell-like flowers; the 
Spring beauty, the mandrake, with its 
doll umbrellas and edible fruit; the 
fringed I’olygala, which looks like a gay 
little butterfly, and the pretty blue-eyed 
grass. 
Later in the season comes the meadow 
lily, which is found by the roadsides and 
fence corners, nodding ladies’ tresses from 
the edge of the woodland, the ghostly In¬ 
dian pipe which thrives only in damp, 
dark places, the pearly everlasting which 
makes attractive Winter bouquets, and 
the white baneberry whose berries the 
children call doll’s eyes. 
The black-eyed Susan, Joe-Pye weed, 
the Asters and goldeurod are attractive 
in their native surroundings, but would 
hardly be pleasing in the restricted area 
of a garden. The wild carrot or Queen 
Anne's lace, the daisies and wild morning- 
glory, are beautiful, but are such noxious 
weeds that no farmer can take kindly to 
the thought of cherishing them. It is said 
that many of our weeds, such as butter 
and eggs, are only escaped “posies” from 
our grandmother’s garden. 
There is one plant that is considered a 
weed that should be in our garden if it 
were not found blooming along every 
roadside. That is the yellow evening 
primrose, and its interest lies in the way 
it bursts into flower. Margaret Deland 
describes it perfectly : 
“Children came 
To watch the primrose blow. Silent they 
stood, 
Hand clasped in hand, in breathless 
hush around, 
And saw her shyly doff her soft green 
hood 
And blossom—with a silken burst of 
sound.” 
Every child who has not had this ex¬ 
perience will find it more interesting than 
the “movies.” In the Summer twilight 
the buds may be found ready to bloom 
and the exciting part is that one never 
knows just when the event is to take 
place; one may have to watch five min¬ 
utes and it may be half an hour, and if 
one looks away for a second he is certain 
to miss it. 
Among the wild shrubs the most beauti¬ 
ful is the fragrant pink Azalea, but, like 
the arbutus, it is being destroyed by 
thoughtless persons who break off the 
whole shrub instead of being satisfied 
with a single branch. I have never seen 
it in cultivation, but think that it might 
be done with care, for it is not as partic¬ 
ular about soil and location as is the 
arbutus. I have found it at home with 
the arbutus above the rocky cliffs along 
the shores of a lake, and also in the fence 
corners of this dark, rich land, between 
the lakes. 
The flowering dogwood which is grow¬ 
ing less plentiful year by year should be 
conserved, and what better place for do¬ 
ing it than near our own homes? It is 
listed in the nursery catalogues, but is 
still found in the woods in many sections 
not too near the cities. It is so wonder¬ 
ful. with its broad, flat branches of snowy 
white, that one can hardly blame passing 
motorists for wishing to pick it. The 
white flowers, with the little notches at 
the tips, are really not flowers at all, but 
are scales that have protected the cluster 
of tiny yellowish-green flowers in the 
center. The common elderberry and 
pussy willow are also listed in the cat¬ 
alogues, but may be had from any road¬ 
side or fence corner. As a screen in front 
of the chicken house or at the back of 
the lawn they are attractive. 
In fact, the whole wild flower garden 
should be well at the back of the grounds, 
beyond the gaze of the casual passerby, 
for it is the individual wild flower rather 
than the general effect of the garden as a 
whole that is attractive. But to those 
of us who are country bred and who 
learned to love them in our childhood, 
just a whiff of their fragrance brings 
back many pleasant memories. I read 
recently that childhood reminiscences 
were one of the first symptoms of a fail¬ 
ing mind. If this is true, then most of 
us who are over 25 are on the downward 
road toward old age and senility. But 
whether this is true or not, let us have 
our wild flower garden, a haven of peace 
and contentment, to remind us of the 
carefree happy days of our childhood, and 
to bring more joy into our lives. 
A FARM WOMAN. 
A certain famous preacher was intro¬ 
duced to a wealthy city stock broker of 
the nouveau riche type, who boasted to him 
of his success. “When I landed in this 
c ntry,” he said, “I hadn’t a cent in my 
pocket.” “Yes,” said the other quietly, 
“but there were other pockets.”—Mobile 
Register. 
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THE RURAL NEW-YORKER 
333 West 30th St. New York City 
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333 West 30th Si., New York 
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