WHICH RECORDS AN AMATEUR’S ATTEMPT TO MAKE A QUICK GARDEN—THE 
WILD FLOWERS THAT CAN BE TRANSPLANTED—AN INEXPENSIVE BIRD BATH 
M. C. Aymar 
L ET me preface this article by 
stating at once that it is not 
written for those who are "old hands 
at the business” of garden making. But 
if there be any who, like myself, have 
had the misfortune of moving into a 
new house when summer has already 
begun and have been confronted with 
the hopeless aspect of new grounds, 
let them read and mark the words and 
doing of "A Woman Who Couldn't 
Wait.” 
It was bad enough to get settled 
inside the house during hot weather, 
but when one adds carpenters, plumb¬ 
ers and painters, who were still 
occupying space, there one has come to the true nightmare of 
moving. As I was thus balked in my natural desire to put our 
Lares and Penates in order I turned my attention to what bad 
been left of Mother Earth out-of-doors. And I am bound to say 
the prospect was enough to discourage an expert—and, far from 
being so awesome a person, I was simply a city dweller come to 
live in tbe country for tbe first time. But ignorance is the purest 
bliss where some gardening is concerned—no matter what that 
same expert may have to say to the contrary—and nothing but 
it, and doing things yourself, will ever be so helpful a teacher. 
The trenches around our 
house had just been covered 
over, the filling in and the 
road only completed after we 
came; so, while waiting for 
the first spear of grass to 
show green amid all that ex¬ 
panse of brown dust, I looked 
about to see how I could help 
push old Mother Nature along 
in her much-too-slow-to-suit- 
me process of covering un¬ 
sightly spots. Consulting seed 
catalogues was fascinating, 
but also very discouraging 
work, as no nurseryman 
would sell me anything in the 
wav of plants, vines or shrubs 
so late in the season. They 
had plenty of suggestions for 
September and October, but 
I wanted my cake, and I wanted it 
now! I had no time, either, just then 
"to dig a trench two feet deep and 
put in it well-rotted manure, wood 
ashes, etc., and fine-sifted loam on 
top,” which, I read, was the proper 
way to go about making a proper bed. 
So I took to wandering in tbe nearby 
fields and woods and kept my eyes 
open with a purpose in mind — and 
that was to see how Nature herself 
did her planting on poor soil and in 
improbable places. 
The first thing which struck me 
was that the ordinary field daisy was 
not at all particular as to its home; 
sun or shade, moist or dry, appeared all one to this hardy 
pioneer— it certainly did not demand manure or sifted loam — and 
what would be prettier than a mass of them growing on my 
own grounds instead of the paltry few I could pick and take home 
in my hand? No sooner thought of than done! One side of 
our house was a long, unbroken ugly line at tbe foundation, and 
I need not tell a new homesteader what soil lies in such a position. 
Everything— from the remains of the workmen’s lunches to the 
castoff shoes of the plasterers, which even they deemed too hope¬ 
less to carry away. Well, I did dig down a bit into this unpromis¬ 
ing mass and srhoothed it over 
and dug a lot of holes and 
then I went, myself, with bas¬ 
ket and spading fork, into 
our nearest field and found it 
easy enough to dislodge the 
daisies, for their roots are 
very shallow. I take it for 
granted that even the novice 
knows enough always to take 
a ball of the original soil 
which is around the roots and 
remove as much as possible 
with any plant. Let me, how¬ 
ever, impress on all would-be 
transplanters (who may be as 
ignorant as I was) that my 
good fairy whispered to me 
this time to “puddle” them — 
that is, fill each hole with 
water before planting — this 
Every one advised against moving this tree. The advice was stolidly disregarded. 
And this is its healthy condition after a year and a half 
34 
