July, 1919 
11 
EARLY SUMMER IN THE PEONY BORDER 
The Growth from Simple Beginnings of a Planting where, Singly and Collectively, the Peony 
More than Justifies Its Psuedonym of “The King of Flowers” 
JOHN L. REA 
AWAY off here in this part of the Chani- 
il plain Valley, where the last low foothills 
of the Adirondacks have given place to the 
more or less level country stretching east and 
north toward the lake and the St. Lawrence, 
Spring seems always three weeks late in her 
coming. Peony buds rarely venture to open 
much before the second week of June. With 
us, each summer dates from that morning when 
Umbellata rosea, breaking the spell, unfurls 
those lovely violet-rose outer petals of hers, 
and with all the pomp and ceremony of some 
great court functionary performs her gracious 
task of announcing that the peony season is 
at hand. 
The little “cut-leaved” variety, Pceonia 
tenuifolia, and Grandmother’s old crimson, 
have, to be sure, preceded Umbellata and have 
in their turn been befittingly acknowledged 
and loved, the one more for Grandmother’s 
sake than its own, perhaps, and the other for 
the dazzling blood- 
red color of its friend¬ 
ly little blooms, nes¬ 
tled in the feathery 
foliage. Their brief 
seasons were soon 
over, however, and 
they have discreetly 
shed their petals as 
if having no notion 
of trying conclusions 
with any representa¬ 
tive of that glorious 
galaxy of beauties 
soon to burst . upon 
the stage. 
And now time drags 
never so slowly. The 
last irises are cut. All 
signs of the late pink 
and yellow cottage 
tulips are carefully 
taken away. The 
whole border, through¬ 
out its hundred and 
aixty-five feet of 
length, is a billowy 
mass of green. There 
are the glistening 
metallic green of the 
peony leaves, the gay 
green of iris blades, 
the soft fuzzv greens 
of foxgloves and larkspurs, the dainty green 
of the growing phloxes, the cold, stiff, forbid¬ 
ding lily stalks—the whole relieved by the 
dark color of young evergreens and the over¬ 
hanging boughs of old apple trees. Then the 
miracle slowly but surely takes place, and my 
impatience becomes a wish that time might 
run a little more slowly now, and the next 
three weeks lengthen out into the duration of 
as many months. 
The Opening of the Season 
In normal season Umbellata, for some 
three days, has the border all to herself. But 
I know her solitary grandeur cannot last, 
and, as with a miser’s glee, I gently feel the 
great swelling buds on the four mammoth 
plants of Festiva maxima at Umbellata’s right, 
I wonder, with just a touch of irony, if she 
in her pride sees them, too. Gradually all 
about Umbellata, buds are coming to the burst¬ 
ing point, and each plant in its regular, never 
failing order of succession discloses its gorge¬ 
ous wares. 
At the height of the peony season, there 
always comes a time when, standing at the 
far end of this wonderful mass of color, made 
up literally of hundreds of great flowers rang¬ 
ing from the purest white through all sorts 
of cream and blush tints, light and deep pinks, 
glowing reds and crimsons, I marvel why every 
garden isn't full of peonies at that hour. 
Pray, Reader, plant them in your garden, if 
you have not already done so. The original 
cost of the roots is not prohibitive. The price 
of a pair of shoes will start a collection, and, 
as far as I can see, no conjuror’s art is needed 
to make them grow. 
I shall never forget the morning when the 
scales fell from my own eyes. That, indeed, 
was a red-letter day. It so happened that I 
had an eleven o'clock appointment with a 
gentleman living in a 
suburban town. As it 
was a beautiful June 
morning and I had 
given up the whole 
forenoon to keeping 
the appointment, I 
took an unnecessarily 
early train out from 
the city and spent the 
intervening hour or 
two roaming about the 
residential streets. 
Somewhere that morn¬ 
ing I chanced by a 
broad green lawn 
where perhaps two 
dozen peony plants 
were growing — set 
stiffly in a row, to be 
sure, but all in full 
bloom, truly in the 
pink of perfection. I 
very nearly forgot the 
appointment, as I have 
since forgotten both 
the face and the name 
of the man I had gone 
out to see. The reve¬ 
lation and inspiration 
of that row of peonies, 
however, yet abides, 
and they, like Words- 
The peony bed in blossom is a place of striking beauty. Here is Couronne d’Or, pure white 
with a ring of yellow stamens around a central tuft of petals tipped with carmine 
