THE NATIONAL NURSERYMAN 
15 
ol delight lit for the touch of angel’s feet, while the 
whole is flooded with billows of sweetest perfume. 
Three years ago that was a patch of barren earth. Now 
you have pulled down a section of paradise upon it and 
condensed there Ihe tints of the morning, the splendors ol 
the evening, the beauty of the rainbow, and the efful¬ 
gence which flames in the mantles of the suns. 
I love to think of Nature as a person—first born 
daughter of God. Her head white with the snows of 
the centuries, her cheeks radiant with the flush of re¬ 
current springtime, emblems of eternal youth. She 
takes you by the hand, leads you into the forests, talks 
to you of the soul of the tree, telb you how intelligent it 
is. There is one standing in the open. It has per¬ 
formed a feat no civil engineer can emulate. Think of 
those roots so busily scurrying around in the earth, gath¬ 
ering food to send up the cambium high-way to nourish 
•the tree. See the tent cords thrown out to anchor it 
against the storms. Look at those trees on the outskirts. 
Among wild animals the strongest are on guard on the 
outside to protect the herd. So these sentinel trees 
guard their wards against the storms. Fool man cuts 
down the guards and the wards fall before the sweep of 
the storms. Mother Nature—dear friendly soul—takes 
you into her holy of holies and reveals her mysteries. 
She makes a confidant of you. She throws open her 
doors and shows you the wide vistas of a new land you 
may enter and glorify. Follow her direction and what 
a friend you have. Gross her, thinking you know more 
than she does, and she laughs at you. She takes you 
into the garden and the nursery and discloses her won¬ 
ders and helps you to work miracles. You plant seeds 
and bulbs, and beauty rises to greet you. Did you ever 
think of the royal position of the florist and Horticul¬ 
turist? 
4 
The sacred poet speaks of the “labor of the olive.” 
What a flood of light that opens upon us. “All things 
are yours.” Let us go out into the grove you have 
planted. 1 once took off my hat to myself. While liv¬ 
ing in the Republican Valley near the 100th meridian, I 
planted some bull pine seed. When the little trees were 
large enough, I transplanted them in rows six feet apart 
and started a miniature forest. Twenty-five years after 
I went to see them. The rows were straight. The 
trees had line bodies six inches through. They were 
miniature columns in a temple, holding up a canopy of 
green. The ground was covered with a thick carpet of 
needles. It was one of the most pleasing sights 1 ever 
saw. Then 1 thought “What if I had planted forty 
acres?” I would have had a Mecca to which horticul¬ 
tural pilgrims would have flocked from hundreds of 
miles. I planted the trees and the faithful servants 
kept on working day and night and that beautiful grove 
was the result. Every tree you plant is your servant 
and how faithful it is—no shirking—always at it 
whether you are looking or not. Look at that cherry 
tree. How the tiny rootlets scurry through the soil- 
faithful children gathering food to send up to their 
mother. Look at that flood of bloom. Then the fruit 
grows till a mass of red gleams from the leafy coverts. 
There is a great difference between a patch of brown 
earth and your faithful Jonathan. What a marvel that 
little patch of soil, absolutely milked by those busy lin¬ 
gers, and the extracts of it 
tree. Talk of chemists, 
them all. 
glowing in red beauty on the 
Those quiet rootlets surpass 
II you want to be in the realm of miracles, lay down 
your hoe a while and sit among your flowers. Your 
brain devised the plan, your hand planted the seeds and 
bulbs. “Behold the lilies, how they grow.” Now sit 
there and think it out. At your feet are artists no hu¬ 
man skill may imitate. Two peonies grow side by side. 
Golden Harvest opens with yellow petals fading to purest 
white. In the center is a miniature Festiva Maxima— 
blood drops and all. How can those roots send up the 
golden tints; the snowy white and the red, and never 
have the colors mixed? Close by is a Plutarch, deep 
brilliant red. The roots intermingle. How is it pos¬ 
sible to pick out of the dull soil, Nature’s eternal drab, 
that brilliant color for your peony ? There are your Iris 
—the newer sorts absolutely undescribable. 
There are a dozen different shades in a single bloom. But 
those blind artists at work in their subterranean studios 
never make a mistake. The standards must have just 
such colors, the falls just such tints, and where did they 
gel that dazzling radiant reflex such as you see on Per- 
tection, Monsigner and Black Knight? But it is always 
there shimmering in the sunlight. There is a fairy— 
a pure snowy queen. How was that sweetness and 
purity ever extracted from the scentless soil? Every 
bloom uncorks a vial of perfume which has the odor of 
the peach blossom. 
Did you ever sit down in your Kingdom and see what 
a royal throne you occupied? What a reception your 
flowers give you. The ambrosia and nectar of the feasts 
of the dieties of fable are overshadowed by the fragrance 
and sweetness of your worshippers. It would seem that 
every flower, like a royal subject, was bent on rendering 
the most exalted honor to her king. 
No company of maidens preparing for nuptials weie 
ever arrayed like these. Each one is striving to do her 
best. The highest art ever displayed in the palaces of 
kings is no comparison to the beauty and splendor of 
your reception. By divine right you are supreme. The 
fertile soil puts her tributes at your feet. For you, all 
the viewless influences of nature are at work. For you, 
the sun shines and the showers fall. So brothers, don't 
creep, but mount up as on eagles wings. Invoice your¬ 
self and see how great you are. Don't live all the while 
in the basement. Spend some time in the upper story of 
your calling. 
You are not making the earth weep blood. You are 
not spreading on the lields a carpet of mangled forms. 
You are not dropping ruin and death from the skies or 
polluting God’s pure waters with submarines. You arenot 
turning all your energies into the work of destruction, 
despoiling the treasures of art and Ihe pride ol the ages, 
and turning the fairest portions of the earth into desola- 
ions. You are not changing yourselves into demons to 
gloat over starvation and ruin. 
You are soldiers of peace. Behind you was the som¬ 
ber earth. You touched it with the wand of your power, 
and beauty, health, and pleasure spring up to bless, you. 
See what you have done! You have clothed the bar¬ 
renness of the dreary plain with gardens, orchards, and 
