THE LADIES’ FLORAL CABINET. 
the delicate little spring beauty, Claytonia Virginica, 
nestling in the dead grass and weeds, with its pale red 
flowers, its tender and half-prostrate stem with two long 
lance-shaped leaves, all rising together from its bulbous 
roots. It [belongs to the portulaca family, and is not 
dissimilar to the best-known species of that plant found in 
our gardens, whether as cultivated flowers or weeds. 
There are other spring beauties that we cannot speak 
of at this time—the snow-white saxifrage, the Azalea 
vlscosa, with its large white flowers ; the adder’s-tongue 
or dog-tooth violet, with its lily-like flower of bright 
golden yellow and sometimes slightly purple; the blue 
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violets which peer out everywhere in the thickets and 
among the grass. We pass by all these, which, with the 
others we have named, are the real hamadryads, the chil¬ 
dren of the groves, that may be moved only in their native 
wilds. Like Persephone, when torn from the flowery 
meads of Enna, they pine and wither removed from their 
places. They are true children of the sunshine and the 
spirits of the air, and, though but the harbingers of the 
coming hosts that accompany the flower-bearing May, 
who themselves give place to those of June, they hold a 
place in Nature’s casket that no other jewels can replace. 
Clinton Montagne. 
A LITTLE TALK. 
W HEN I see a woman in the spring, poking among 
some mounds sadly the worse for the winter’s 
storms, uncovering a favored shrub only to find it broken 
by having been stepped on, a pruning much better done 
by a sharp instrument, I wonder were her beginnings 
small ones, as were mine. A dollar’s worth of seed, a 
shrub from one neighbor, a rosebush from another, and 
all the plants so carefully tended, so tenderly watched 
until the blossoms filled the air with fragrance. One day 
morning-glories for breakfast, pansies for tea; then the 
next, sweet peas, mignonette and roses. 
Isn’t a woman to be envied, who has her flower-bed in 
summer, her window-garden in winter, and successfully 
combats bugs and insects, and doesn’t awake Some cold 
morning in the dead of winter, to find her pets black in¬ 
stead of blooming ? 
Years ago house plants were a rarity. Such a thing as 
a plant growing in winter, when I was a child, I never 
saw, but mother always had her long flower-bed in the 
garden; her round mounds each side of the front gate; 
morning-glories to run up the lattice-work, and make a 
cool shade where afternoons of the long summer day she 
could sit with her sewing and look out on the masses of 
old-fashioned pinks, sweet-williams, great double poppies, 
marigolds, and hollyhocks. I remember how we used 
to gather apron'sful of poppies and tie them down, and 
play they were dolls in silk gowns, and running a stick 
through the hollyhocks, make believe they were parasols, 
and mother never interdicted picking her flowers, but 
always smiled, as though she thought them civilizers of 
our wild natures. 
I have a conservatory now, and it all grew out of a rose 
geranium, and a fuchsia. That fuchsia ( Speciosa ), is now 
sixteen years old, and a slip taken from it is nearly the 
same age the two, in twelve-inch pots, are put in the 
cellar, when it is too cool for them out-doors. This spring, 
for the first time, I shook off the old earth and gave 
them entirely new quarters. I have always been afraid 
to disturb them heretofore, but they are coming out finely. 
I cut them back each spring, and they then afford a large 
quantity of blossoms during summer. 
My conservatory was nearly all paid for from the sale 
of cut-flowers, from my garden. Remember, the whole 
thing started from one dollar’s worth of seed. The first 
flowers I sold July 4, 1876 (I had always given them 
away by the basketful). The whole town was enthu¬ 
siastic over decorations that day. My garden was a 
mass of bloom. I only charged ten cents for a large 
bouquet, and that was my regular price until I built my 
conservatory. 
People were glad to buy, being ashamed to beg at those 
small figures. There is always a class in a community 
who do not seem to think that flowers cost time, labor 
and money, and continue to be beggars ; yet spin street- 
yarn enough to put in good time on a small flower-garden. 
Then there is another class always coming in the spring, 
after “ slips.” So I started the sale of plants, and these 
same persons now inquire “ Do you sell or give away 
slips?” It has been almost impossible for a lady to be a 
successful window-gardener, for her plants were “ slipped ” 
to death. 
I like to see a woman paid as much for her work as a 
man if she does it equally as well. She does not, as a 
general thing, stop to take a chew of tobacco, or, with a 
pipe in her mouth, go about a task as though what she 
had to do was of the last importance and the pipe the 
first. 
One spring I hired a newly-arrived sturdy Dutchman 
to spade up my flower-beds. He came in the morning 
and spaded awhile, but spent most of the time smoking 
and running around the corner for beer. When he went 
away at noon he said, “Mein frau she come’d.” She 
“come’d,”and how nicely she forked over the ground— 
how much more she accomplished in the same amount of 
time. He came around at night to collect the wages and 
go home with her; but I put fifty cents into his hand and 
gave her the dollar. I thought, as she had done the lion’s 
share, she should have the lion’s pay. Then I pointed to 
his work and to hers. She laughed and nodded, and put 
the money in her pocket, and his merry “yaw, yaw, she 
goot,” told me that he appreciated the point. 
M. Lou Medlor. 
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