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JOURNAL  OF  HORTICULTURF  AND  COTTAGE  GARDENER. 
April  2,  ISM, 
As  in  the  long  summer  day  at  times  we  begin  to  look  for  the 
coming  of  the  sweet  pale  moonlight  as  a  relief  from  the  blazing 
sun,  so  do  we  find  rest  for  the  eyes  in  turning  them  for  a  time  upon 
the  chastely  coloured  flowers  of  the  white  Daffodils.  In  form,  too, 
how  perfect  are  some  of  these  “  Lilies,”  as  our  country  folks  love 
to  call  them  !  Gold  and  silver  vases,  cups,  and  chalices,  with  chased 
flutings  and  carved  flanges,  borne  on  star-shaped  gold  or  silver 
salvers,  but  faintly  echo  the  thoughts  called  into  being  by  the  study 
of  these  blossoms  of  the  Daffodil. 
Lilies,  too,  are  these  ?  Yes  !  truly  so,  are  these  strange,  nodding, 
fantastic-coloured  flowers  of  the  Fritillaries,  which  turn  to  Heaven 
their  dullest  colours,  as  if  resolved  that  their  prettiest  features 
should  be  reserved  for  the  earth  from  whence  they  sprung.  On  the 
outside  they  are,  as  the  poet  says — 
“  Faint  tinted,  spotted  like  an  ocelot’s  skin, 
Streaked  like  the  banded  viper,  with  their  lean  sleek  stalks.” 
But  if  you  lift  their  dangling  bells  you  see  more  of  that  beauty 
which  makes  these  Snake’s-head  Lilies  dear  to  the  lover  of  flowers. 
Then,  too,  there  are  the  Grape  Hyacinths,  some  of  which,  not 
only  in  form,  resemble  bunches  of  the  fruit  of  the  Yine,  but  also 
possess  the  colouring  and  even  the  bloom  of  some  of  the  black 
Grapes  the  experienced  fruit  growers  of  our  land  can  grow  so  well. 
The  common  Grape  Hyacinth,  with  its  delightful  flower*  of  blue, 
is  a  lovely  little  plant  in  its  colouring,  and  from  its  varieties  and 
other  species  we  have  shades  of  colour  from  pale  pearl-blue  to  deep 
•ooty  black  blue  with  white  and  pale  flesh-coloured  ones  as  well. 
Wandering  through  the  Flag  Irises  and  among  some  New 
Zealand  Veronicas  in  the  rock  garden,  and  creeping  along  the  margin 
of  the  gravel  paths,  are  the  flowers  of  Io,  of  which  the  immortal 
poet  of  Avon  says  :  — 
“  Yiolet's  dim, 
Yet  sweeter  than  the  lids  of  Juno’s  eyes 
Or  Cytherea’s  breath.” 
And  as  we  walk  along  the  pathway  there  comes  wafted  to  us  the 
breath  of  their  fragrance,  reminding  us  of  the  saying  of  Frank 
Leigh  in  “  Westward  Ho !  ’’  that  “  fragrance  is,  as  has  been  said 
well,  the  song  of  flowers,”  and,  softening  our  hearts,  attunes  them 
to  the  melody  of  Nature’s  soothing  music.  Admire,  too,  these 
sheets  of  snow-white  Arabis  which  droop  from  the  rocky  bank  or 
make  mounds  of  white  foam  in  the  borders.  Enticing  are  these 
to  the  bees,  drawing  them  to  forsake  the  early  Heath  they  loved 
to  frequent,  and  hindering  them  from  roaming  to  the  catkins  of 
the  Willows  which  fringe  the  road  a  little  away.  It  is  pleasant  to 
stand  over  this  Arabis  and  regale  the  eye  with  its  blossoms,  and  the 
ear  with  the  melodious  hum  of  the  forager  so  intent  upon  its  task 
that  the  shadow  of  the  garden’s  owner  disturbs  it  not. 
They  caie  not,  though,  for  the  purple  or  rosy-red  flowers  of 
the  Aubrietia,  which  also  depends  from  the  rock  garden  slopes,  or 
gives  colour  to  tho  border.  Its  attractions  are  less  powerful  to 
them  than  to  the  gardener  who  delights  in  its  colouring  and  in  its 
brilliant  effect. 
Like  jewels  in  various  settings  shine  Primroses  and  Polyanthuses 
from  rocky  nooks,  and  from  the  garden’s  level  spots.  Loved  of 
the  older  poets  were  these  Primroses  when  they  knew  not  the 
flower  save  in  the  pallid  blossoms  of  the  wild  plant.  Cold  did  it 
seem  to  most  of  them,  though  they  sung  of  its  beauty  on  grassy 
bank  or  by  the  pathway  side.  To  the  Fletchers  it  seemed  to 
burn  like  fire,  but  to  the  others  it  was  the  “  pale  Primrose.’’ 
To  us  who  know  the  Primrose  as  changed  by  the  gardener’s 
art  it  is  a  bright  and  cheery  plant  with  flowers  bright  yellow, 
or  orange,  pink,  ruby  red,  crimson,  and  even  blue,  surpassing  in 
brightness  the  stray  seedlings  of  the  wood  which  were  not  content 
to  wear  the  modest  livery  of  their  ancestral  race,  but  stained  their 
petals  with  faint  pink  or  dull  red.  So,  perhaps,  we  love  it  more 
than  they  of  old,  although  we  confess  that  still  the  mossy  bank 
starred  with  the  wild  Primrose  is  a  thing  of  beauty  unapproach¬ 
able  in  its  own  way,  and  lovelier  far  than  many  of  our  gardens  can 
present. 
Of  the  Polyanthus  what  shall  we  say  ?  It  is,  as  Thomson  says, 
“  of  unnumbered  dyes/’  and  these  are  so  fine  that  everyone  can 
recognise  their  beauty.  Few  there  are  who  grow  the  gold-laced 
Polyanthus  which  once  had  so  many  worshippers  at  its  shrine,  but 
there  are  thousands  who  find  in  the  self  and  parti-coloured  varieties 
much  to  attract  their  sense  of  beauty  and  to  lead  them  to  add  these 
flowers  to  the  objects  of  their  solicitude  and  admiring  care.  Very 
quaint  and  curious  are  some  of  these  Polyanthuses  and  Oxlips,  for 
Nature  has  shown  in  them  some  of  the  freaks  in  which  she  at  times 
delights.  There  are  the  Hose-in-Hose  in  which  the  calyx  has 
become  a  second  corolla,  and  others  in  which  strange  development* 
of  the  calyx  have  taken  place,  giving  us  the  Jack-in-the-Green,  the 
Galligaskin,  and  the  Jackanapes-on-Horseback.  Other  Primroses 
of  various  kinds  there  are  of  which  I  cannot  now  tell,  though  the 
golden  and  silvery  dust  with  which  the  leaves  of  some  are  powdered 
would  lead  me  to  say  something. 
It  is  long  since  the  first  Windflower  of  the  year  opened  to 
gladden  us,  and  now  when  the  day*  have  lengthened  more  of  the 
Anemone  race  have  opened  their  cup-like  flowers  or  spread  their 
narrow  starry  sepals.  There  are  the  pleasing  Windflower  of  Greece, 
not  yet  over,  the  Anemone  of  the  Apennines  or  Geranium-leaved 
Windflower,  the  Scarlet  Windflower  of  the  South  of  France,  the 
varieties  of  the  Wood  Anemone,  which  spangles  our  woods  with  its 
clear  snow-like  flowers,  and  the  great  Poppy  Windflower,  which 
rivals  in  colouring,  although  without  the  glass-like  lustre,  the 
flower  whence  it  obtains  the  name  of  “  Poppy  ”  Anemone.  Looking 
at  these  flowers  as  they  open  out  in  the  April  sun  I  think  with  glad 
heart  of  their  brightness,  which  is  full  not  only  of  joy  for  the 
present  but  of  promise  of  the  time  when  the  Poppies,  despised  by 
many  yet  beautiful,  full  of  death,  as  is  the  lot  of  man,  yet  pleasure¬ 
giving  too,  shall  flutter  in  the  summer  sun. 
The  Poppy  of  the  spring  is,  however,  not  the  Anemone,  but 
the  Tulip,  which  has  now  come  with  welcome  appearing.  Many 
and  hard  have  been  the  blows  given  it  by  those  who  know  it  not, 
and  who  have  mistaken  the  gay  colouring  for  gaudiness.  Much  of 
this  is  due  to  the  revulsion  naturally  felt  at  the  mad  craze  which 
made  this  flower  not  so  much  the  fashion  of  the  day  as  a  medium 
for  the  gambling  spirit  of  the  speculator,  who  neither  knew  nor 
cared  for  the  beauty  of  the  flower  on  which  he  set  such  fabulous 
prices.  Happily  these  days  are  gone,  and  now  we  love  the  flower 
for  what  it  is,  and  can  place  it  where  it  looks  at  home,  springing  up 
among  surrounding  greenery,  and  with  all  its  charms  enhanced  by 
the  foliage  ’mid  which  it  stands,  or  by  the  carpet  of  Forget-me-not, 
of  heaven’s  blue,  through  which  the  white  Tulip  so  pleasingly 
grows. 
My  tale  must  now  draw  to  a  close  ;  not  that  it  is  fully  told,  but 
because  there  is  so  much  more  to  tell.  Dog’s  Tooth  Yiolets  would 
claim  many  lines  for  their  mottled  leaves  and  charming  flowers. 
Toothwort*,  now  numbered  among  the  Ladies’  Smocks,  are  so 
curiously  attractive  that  they  would  occupy  some  space.  Malodorous 
Alliums,  which  Ruskin  tells  us  belong  to  that  group  which  “  has 
always  caused  him  great  wonder,”  as  he  “  cannot  understand  why 
its  beauty  and  serviceableness  should  have  been  associated  with  the 
rank  scent.”  The  allied  Squills,  Triteleias,  Hepaticas,  and  many 
others  fill  our  store  of  beauty  to  overflowing. 
With  a  feeling  that  a  noble  task  has  been  ignobly  done  and  a 
deeper  realisation  of  impossibility  of  giving  utterance  in  human 
words  to  the  thoughts  which  Tennyson  says  the  meanest  flower  can 
give — “  thought*  that  do  often  lie  too  deep  for  tears  ” — I  lay  down 
my  pen.  May  the  failure  be  forgiven  for  the  spirit  which  prompted 
the  effort !— S.  Arnott. 
MELON  CULTURE. 
Melons  can  be  successfully  cultivated  both  in  houses  and 
frames,  but  on  the  whole  the  best  results  follow  their  cultivation 
in  a  span-roof  or  lean-to  structure  which  can  be  well  heated.  In 
such  a  house  their  cultivation  may  be  commenced  very  early  in  the 
