184 
THE LADIES' FLORAL CABINET. 
the foliage of a very handsome plant by putting it in 
the hot sun, because I was impatient to see it bloom, 
and was told that was the proper thing to do, to start it 
into bloom; but I found to my sorrow that the foli¬ 
age was all blistered and turned brown. Mine makes 
a growth the latter part of winter, and blooms twice 
during the year. It sends out long brown runners des¬ 
titute of a single leaf, but after a while leaves will 
form; the flower stem often forms a year before it 
blooms; it looks like a little brown stem, but if you wait 
long enough you will see the end begin to swell and 
increase in size very fast, and a cluster of pink flowers 
looking as if stamped out of pink velvet, with a crimson 
star in the center, will gladden your eyes; they are 
fragrant, and each flower secretes a drop of pure honey; 
you can see it drop after they have been open a day or 
two. It will bloom on the same stem year after year, 
the old flowers dropping and the new buds pushing out 
from the end, so in time it will grow several inches in 
length; therefore never cut off a cluster of blossoms, if 
you wish it to bloom again. 
The Hoya does well set on a bracket half way up the 
window, because it is warmer, I suppose; the roots are 
few and coarse; so it does not seem to need a large pot; 
it wants plenty of tepid water when growing, and but 
little when at rest. Be sure and have good drainage of 
broken pots and bits of charcoal. It can be trained 
around the room like an Ivy; it need not be taken down 
in summer, it does better not to be disturbed. I saw a 
plant last spring that was in a four-inch pot on a bracket 
half way up the side of the window; it was several yai’ds 
in length, was trained up the side of the window and 
along the wall; it had sis clusters of flowers, and more 
coming. I noticed the saucer of the pot was filled with 
water, and asked the reason why. The lady said “ the 
plaDt did not grow at all, seemingly stood still, some 
one told her to water freely and keep warm water in 
the saucer all the time; she did so, and it began to grow 
and bloom; it certainly looked very healthy; but it up. 
set my theory that no plant (except the Calla Lily) 
should have water stand in the saucer. 
Mrs. M. Plumstead. 
ROSES AND ROSE LOVERS. 
June is the paradise of Roses. In this month they 
break into unparalleled splendor. AllRosedomisoutm 
holiday apparel; and Roses white and black, green and 
pink, scarlet, crimson and yellow, striped and mottled, 
double and single, in clusters and solitary, Moss Roses, 
Damask Roses, Noisette, Perpetual, Bourbon, China, 
Tea, Musk, and all other tribes and names, hang in 
exuberant beauty. The air is full of their fragrance. 
The eye can turn nowhere that it is not attracted to a 
glowing bush of Roses. At first one is exhilarated. He 
wanders from bush to bush and cuts the finest speci¬ 
mens until there is no room or dish for more. So many 
Roses, and so few to see them ! What would not peo¬ 
ple shut up in cities give to see such luxuriance of 
beauty? How strange that those who have ground do 
not gather about them these favorites of every sense ! 
The air and soil that nourish Nettles and Thistles, Plan¬ 
tain and Dock, would bring forth Roses with equal 
kindness. There is enough ground wasted around 
country houses to furnish root-room for a hundred kind 
of Roses without detriment either to fruit trees or orna¬ 
mental trees. Men admire them when they see them 
in a friend’s house; they are always pleased to receive 
a lapful as a present to their wife, mother or daughter; 
but it does not enter into the head that they, too, might 
have Roses to give away. Roses are easy of culture, 
easy of propagation, requiring almost as little care as 
Dandelions or Daisies. The wonder is that every other 
man is not an enthusiast, and in the month of June a 
fanatic. Floral insanity is one of the most charming 
inflictions to which man is heir. One never wishes to 
be cured, nor should any one wish to cure him. The 
garden is infectious. Flowers are “ catching,” or the 
love of them is. Men begin with one or two. In a few 
years they are struck through with floral zeal. No bees 
are more sedulous in their researches into flowers than 
many a man is, and one finds, after the strife and heat 
and toil of his ambitious life, that there is more pure 
satisfaction in his garden than in all the other pursuits 
that promise so much of pleasure and yield so little. It 
is pleasant to find in men whose hard and loveless side 
you see in society, so much that is gentle and beauty- 
loving in private. Hard capitalists, sharp politicians, 
grinding business-men, will often be found, at home, 
in full sympathy with the sweetest aspects of Nature. 
One is surprised to find how gentle these monsters often 
turn out to be ! Here is the man whom you have for 
years heard described, in all the newspapers, as a spec¬ 
tacle of wickedness or a monument of folly. You are, 
by some convulsion of Nature, thrown into his company 
and travel for days with him. To your surprise, his 
manners are gentle, his conversation pleasing, his at¬ 
tention to all about him considerate. This must be 
artifice. It is a veil to hide that hideous heart 
of which you have heard so much. You watch 
and wait. But watching and waiting only satisfy 
you that this supposed monster is a kind man, with 
a world of sympathy for beautiful things. And when, 
in after months, you have been at his summer-house, 
and know him in his vineyard and his garden, you 
smile at yourself that you were ever subject to that 
illusion which is so often raised about public men. A 
man is not always to be trusted because he loves fine 
horses, or because he follows the stream or hunts in the 
field. But if a man that loves flowers, and loves them 
enough to labor for them, is not to be trusted, where in 
this wicked world shall we go for trust? A man that 
carries a garden in his heart has got back again a part 
of the Eden from which our great forefather was ex¬ 
pelled.— II. W. Beecher. 
Pleasure is the flower that fades ; remembrance is the lasting perfume.— Bouffiers. 
