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THE NATIONAL NURSERYMAN 
A MONUMENT TO “JOHNNY APPLESEED” 
Memorial exercises were held at Foil Wayne, Indiana, 
under Ihe auspices of The Indiana Horticultural Society 
when a large monument consisting of a natural granite 
houlder seven feet high and five feet wide was unveiled 
in memory of “Johnny Appleseed,” a unique character 
that practically gave his life to planting and caring for 
apple orchards for the pioneer settlers of Indiana and 
Ohio. The following is the inscription on the monu¬ 
ment: “Johnny Appleseed” (John Chapman) Born in 
Massachusetts, 1776—Died near Fort Wayne, 1842, 
Buried in the David Archer Cemetery. Pioneer apple 
grower of Indiana and Ohio. The Indiana Horticultural 
Society and all those who are endeavoring to carry on the 
work he nobly commenced join in dedicating this monu¬ 
ment to the memory of his deeds.” 
Specialists of the Department of Agriculture have been 
investigating the use of tractors on the farms of Illinois 
to see to what extent they displaced horses. 
According to reports from over 400 owners of tractors 
'they have not displaced horses to any very great extent. 
In about two-thirds of the cases they displaced horses to 
about 50 per cent, of the cost of the tractor out-fit. 
The greatest advantage of the tractor is, that it does 
the heavy work quickly, and thus completes it in the 
proper season. 
More than likely this will prove to he their chief value 
to the nurseryman rather than direct economy in dis¬ 
placement of horses. 
AMERICAN PEONY SOCIETY 
The American Peony Society will hold their thirteenth 
Annual Exhibition in conjunction with the Horticultural 
Society of New York at the American Museum of Natural 
History, 77th street and Central Park West, from June 
9th to lllli, 1916. Official premium list containing full 
information as to the exhibition may he obtained from 
Mr. George Y. Nash, Secretary of the Horticultural So¬ 
ciety of New York, Bronx Park, New York City. Those 
desiring information about the American Peony Society 
should write A. P. Saunders, Secretary, Clinton, New 
York. 
THE TREE MAN 
Is there no spot within creation’s borders, 
Where Treemen do not go, 
Soliciting, with honeyed words, your orders, 
Whether you will or no? 
I bought a home away from road or village— 
A hit of rocky ground— 
Up a hillside where no spot of tillage, 
Has ever yet been found. 
And here, afar from all the world’s vain pageants, 
Close by a lonely shore, 
I thought that treemen and insurance agents, 
Would trouble me no more. 
But one fair morning, lo! a smiling stranger 
Came toiling up the hill. 
Perhaps it was the coming of a Granger, 
A mission to fulfill. 
A portly form, with shining chains adorning, 
Like gold, his stalwart breast. 
His genial countenance and frank “good morning,” 
A subtle charm possessed. 
Perhaps I was vexed to see him thus approaching— 
Perhaps my words were rude— 
Why come you here this morning, said I, encroaching 
Upon my quietude. 
He smiled and answered, “I’m an agent true— 
Of a house of world-wide fame, 
The Buncombe Nurseries, doubtless known to you— 
None bear a better name. 
I tried to leave him—plead my household duties— 
But he my motive knew. 
He op’ed his Plate Book: ah! what gorgeous beauties 
Appeared before my view. 
Apples and pears than morning rose tints fairer, 
Among their leaves of green, 
Moore’s Early grapes, and peaches rarer, 
Than e’er before were seen. 
Here’s for your garden, roses, pale and blushing, 
LaReine, Jacqueminot, 
Deutzia Crenata, and Wiegelas flushing, 
In all their summer glow. 
Spruces of Norway, Oaks, and Willows weeping, 
As in the Emerald Isle: 
Bignonias and Chinese Ivies creeping 
Along the heath-grown stile. 
“A few short years and you, a lordly freeman, 
With flowers and fruits in store, 
Will bless the day the old gray-bearded Treeman, 
Tarried before your door.” 
Alas! the elonuence of classic ages, 
Its boasted laurels won. 
Alas! the poesy of Horace’s pages, 
Its charms were here outdone. 
I saw my grounds with flowers and fruitage teeming, 
Beneath the autumn skies. 
My stately trees around me in my dreaming 
Like Jonah’s Gourd arise. 
I heard the blithe bees aB around me humming, 
“Yes, put me down. I’ll sign.” 
He smiled and said, “your trees shall be forthcoming, 
Your name upon this line.” 
He left me hamw. but T could have shot him, 
As low I heard him say, 
“A tough old cuss: hut, by the gods I brought him, 
This is my lucky day.” 
Therefore my heart exclaims: is there no valley, 
No hill, no far off clime, 
The Treeman does not visit oft, to dally 
Through all the summer time? 
We flee unto the northern hills romantic, 
And meet him everywhere, 
We hie away unto the Isles Atlantic, 
Lo! he is there. 
—From an old Scrap Book. 
