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TH all the pomp of barbaric splendor the great Oriental Poppies flaunt their bizarre colors, 
compelling the attention of the most casual observer. The big Peonies, rich in their 
warm, glowing colors and intoxicating in their delightful fragrance, seem, in unison with 
all Nature, to pulsate with the joy of life in the glory of June, making a universal 
appeal to all human interest. 
But the refined and delicate beauty of the Iris is hidden from the observer whose 
fancy is caught only by the more gorgeous and striking things, and only to those who, 
seeking closer acquaintance, gaze down into the heart of the flower, is revealed the 
rare beauty of its soft iridescence. Mysterious as the opal with its ever-changing fire, its marvelous 
structure more wonderful than the Orchid, so fragile as to be crushed by the slightest pressure, its beauty 
seems wholly ethereal, making you dream of far-away things—like the smoky clouds at dusk, or the 
rainbow glistening in the sun. 
How is it possible accurately to describe a flower of such changing hues? A little girl of ten, trying to 
describe the Iris, said, “I really can’t tell you what color it is, but it’s every kind of fairy color.” 
If you yield to the magic spell of the Iris, it will lead you across the border into a wonderland of delight, 
for an Iris-garden is a floral world in itself, so vast that to mention all the interesting forms would be im¬ 
possible, as there are about one hundred and seventy distinct species, and varieties innumerable. 
I hardly know just why the Iris became my hobby, but I think the influence of early boyhood days, 
out on the wide, trackless prairie, is responsible for the love I have, not alone for the Iris, which was an 
important factor in those early days, but for all flowers and all the beauty of outdoor life among growing 
things, the fresh air and sunshine, green fields and running brooks. We did not have brooks out on the 
prairie, but as far as I could see there was an endless carpet of wild flowers, all studded over with miniature 
lakes and ponds. 
There was the open clear water in the center, hedged around by the tall, dark green rushes, where 
the red-winged blackbirds had their nests. Farther out, surrounding it all with a halo of shimmering blue, 
for all the world like the Heaven itself, grew the Irises (Iris versicolor) —Water-Flags, as we used to call 
them. You had to wade to get them, and the blackbirds would do a deal of scolding about it; but outside, 
rising straight up from the tall meadow grass, the bobolink would burst forth into such a rapturous ecstasy 
of joyous song that you stood transfixed with wonder, and, as you listened to the bird, and then gazed into 
the depths of the fragile flower in your hand, and reveled in its soft, delicate beauty, it seemed to you as if 
life were full of gladness and beauty. 
Of all the birds, give me the bobolink—“Messenger of Joy,”—and for beauty that is wholly ethereal, 
and makes you dream of faraway things beyond the clouds, there is none like that of the Iris, the “Rainbow 
Flower,” “Messenger from the Queen of Heaven to Mortals on Earth,” as the mythologists have it. 
Here in Wyomissing, Irises in endless variety find a congenial home. There is the pleasant sound of 
the brook in the meadow, the mountain sky-line and the leafy woodlands; but, alas, the bobolink is a 
stranger here, and his song exists for me only as a memory of youth and the prairie. 
The passing of the Iris through the spring and summer months is like that of a grand procession, 
the first glimpses of which may be had when the dainty Alpines and Pumilas first appear in April, closely 
followed by the various dwarf forms in April and May, in ever-increasing boldness of form and color, till 
June ushers in the great Germanica family — the Bearded Irises with their broad masses of color. In quick 
succession come the tall Sibiricas and the still taller varieties of Aurea, Monnieri and Gigantea, until, with 
a great burst of splendor, come the Japanese Irises, the crowning glory of all, with their great blooms a 
foot in diameter, rising on tall stems to a height of 5 feet,—the royal family, arrayed in richest blue and 
purple and gold,—and the pageant comes to an end. 
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