THE LADIES' FLORAL CABINET. 
15V 
them in odd corners by themselves or among the 
bushes. 
Indeed, for common Ferns a rough shrubbery bed is 
a very good home. Ferns very much dislike a bare 
earth patch to grow in, but delight in a mossy sod. A 
good substitute for this sod is a thick mulching of half 
rotted leaves, a layer of swamp Moss, or their own old 
grounds around them. But why use these when a living 
sod will answer just as well and appear far prettier r' 
Among your Ferns plant rods of Cornel, handfulls of 
Dutchman’s Breeches, mats of wood Anemones, Part¬ 
ridge-berry, Starflower, Gold-thread, False Soloman’s 
Seal and similar little plants, and let them all run wild 
together, and you will have a much prettier fernery 
than had you used Ferns alone. And to make the mass 
more natural, varied and interesting, you may add the 
hardy Orchids, Cardinal-flower, Bloodroot, Trilliums, 
the lesser Lilies, and other showy flowers. 
But where can you get these Ferns? Go into the 
woods and meadows, dig them up by the basketful or 
wagon-load, and fetch them home. Take big sods of 
earth and plenty roots with them, and after planting 
them give them lots of water then and occasionally 
during the next summer, if it be dry. 
Of course there are lots of foreign Ferns, but few of 
them are much prettier than our own wild ones; and 
there are hundreds of garden varieties of hardy Ferns 
and' which have frilled, crimped, tasselled or crested 
fronds. There are also many native and foreign Ferns 
too small of themselves, or particular in their habits or 
tastes, to rough it in a common garden; let specialists 
and those who have time and means to attend to them 
and satisfy their whims grow them. I would advise 
the amateur to begin with those sorts that will grow 
anyhow; then, if successful, and his inclination lead 
him to further experiment, there is material enough for 
him to work with. Wm. Falconer. 
A MARCH DAY IN FLORIDA. 
It is early in March. I have looked at my almanac, 
and it says for to-day, “High winds, followed by freez¬ 
ing weather and light fall of snow;” but, notwith¬ 
standing that prediction, I put on a muslin dress and 
hastened out on the veranda. Under the shade of a 
luxuriant Passion-vine hangs the thermometer, and 
taking it down I note that it stands at seventy-five de¬ 
grees. To be sure, the ground is white—in spots, but 
it is only the snow of fallen Orange-blossoms, and the 
myriads still opening on the trees are filling the fresh 
morning air with sweetness. Every tree buzzes like a 
hive, for honey-bees are busily at work gathering their 
powdery stores, and golden butterflies are darting here 
and there, undisturbed by any fears of “freezing 
weather.” 
Out to my little garden I go; yes, the Tomato-plants 
are just ready to bloom, the Lettuce and Egg-plant are 
coming up, and bending, I pull a handful of scarlet 
Radishes to grace our breakfast table. 
We eat the meal with the dining-room windows wide 
open, and the song of the birds mingling with our own 
busy chatter; a simple meal enough—a few fresh-laid 
Eggs on delicate rounds of toast, fragrant Coffee, light 
Graham Muffins, the aforesaid Radishes, and a comb of 
golden Honey for all who may possess a “sweet 
tooth.” 
After breakfast, when the household duties are over, 
I spend an hour over my plants and in trimming up 
some young Bananas, which the severe January weather 
had singed somewhat; then, with my sewing-basket, I 
start for a pleasant, shady spot in the woods, near the 
house. What Mamma does, certain small persons are 
sure to do also, and soon comes Ivy with her box of 
patchwork, and the little one witfi playthings, to join 
me. Immense Pine trees surround us, the long, gray 
Moss hanging in heavy festoons from trunk and 
branches, and the south wind sighing through their 
tops, with that peculiar, rushing sound, that onGe heard 
is never forgotten; it is like a distant storm—like a 
coming train,—but most of all, I think, like the cease¬ 
less murmur of the waves along a sandy shore. A 
soothing, lulling sound, and if it were not for the child¬ 
ish voices at my side, and the vexatious darn in the small 
stocking on my lap, perhaps I should drift off into 
Dreamland. 
And so with busy fingers and tongues, the morning 
passes swiftly away; the afternoon is given to other 
duties—to writing home letters, to an hour’s practice 
on the piano, to curing various little bumps and bniises,- 
and various small, fractured hearts, and as the 
“lengthening shadows fall,” I betake myself to my 
hammock for a restful swing. 
Here I find amusement enough in watching a tribe 
of martins who are building under the eaves of our 
porch. Never did I see any living thing make so much 
talk over a small matter, as do Mr. & Mrs. Martin and 
their neighbors ! Such discussion's as to which is the- 
best corner for housekeeping—such jubilees over a nice 
twig, or piece of yarn—such spites, jealousies and in¬ 
dignation meetings ! Just now they have paid all their 
last, noisy, afternoon call, and are screaming > i; i fjw 
important good-night messages; one fellow in his blue- 
black coat, a little more daring than the rest, lights on 
my swaying hammock-rope, and turning his saucy 
head from side to side, eyes me curiously. Near by, on 
a graceful Oleander bush, sits a mocking-bird, swinging 
and singing as only such birds can sing—round, rich 
notes, and full of rollicking fun. How pleased he is 
with himself, and how he enjoys his own powers of 
mimicry ! 
A few little brown quail are scudding thro’ the grass, 
and on a distant bough sounds the blackbird his merry 
welcome, “happy to see you.” 
But bye-and-bye my feathered friends grow silent, 
and the supper-bell, tinkling musically, calls me within 
the lighted house. 
A letter came in to-night’s mail from the North, and 
in it our friend says, “Thermometer 2 deg. below zero, 
