August  1,  1901. 
JOURNAL  OF  HORTICULTURE  AND  COTTAGE  GARDENER, 
103 
our  boxes  of  cut  blooms  ought  to  be  discarded  and  vases  substituted’ 
I  think  people  hardly  know  what  they  are  talking  about.  Some  of 
our  large  exhibitors  would  have  to  bring  up  about  two  hundred  vases, 
and  I  think  that  this  is  a  burden  from  which  they  would  naturally 
shrink.  Such  are  a  few  of  the  things  which  struck  me  most  in 
connection  with  our  late  grand  show  of  Roses  in  the  Inner  Temple 
Gardens  ;  but  I  cannot  conclude  these  notes  without  bearing  testimony 
to  the  invaluable  services  rendered  by  my  co-secretary,  Mr.  Edward 
Mawley,  who  has  worked  hard,  and  upon  whom  the  late  show  entailed 
an  immense  amount  of  labour.  It  would  be  ungracious  also  to  close 
these  few  notes  without  paying  my  tribute  of  gratitude  to  our  venerable 
president,  the  Very  Rev.  the  Dean  of  Rochester,  and  I  am  sure  he 
must  feel  satisfied  that  his  efforts  have  been  so  successful,  and  it  is 
to  be  hoped  that,  year  after  year,  the  gardens  of  the  Inner  Temple  may 
have  as  successful  a  gathering  of  tne  National  Rose  Society  as  they 
have  during  the  last  eight  years  of  the  Royal  Horticultural  Society. 
— D.,  Deal. 
(There,  that’s  one  good  solid  paragraph  finished.  This  new  fashion 
in  literature  certainly  saves  one  a  lot  of  trouble.  Before  it  became 
popular  I  used  to  write  novels;  now  I  don’t  trouble  about  a  plot,  or 
characters,  or  anything.  I  simply  sit  in  the  garden  from  ten  o’clock 
to  four — Saturdays,  ten  to  one — and  put  down  my  thoughts  just  as 
they  come,  mixed  up  with  little  bits  cribbed  from  the  Journal  of 
Horticulture.  In  another  hundred  pages  or  so  the  book  will  be 
finished,  and  I  shall  bid  my  darling  readers  good-bye.) 
Close  by  the  greenhouse,  4  feet  from  the  Gooseberries,  and  2  feet  6 
from  the  second-best  Honeysuckle,  I  have  dotted  in  a  clump  of 
Dandelions.  Such  brave  flowers,  so  sturdy  and  self-reliant !  Oddly 
enough,  they  have  all  turned  out  yellow  with  me.  Why  are  none  of 
them  purple  ?  Perhaps  it  is  the  soil.  But  they  are  not  difficult  to 
grow.  Put  them  singly  in  small  pots  proportionately  to  the  size  of 
the  tubers,  in  a  compost  c  insisting  of  equal  parts  of  fibrous  loam,  leaf 
soil,  and  sand.  Press  the  soil  rather  firmly  if  a  short  growth  and  a 
long  season  are  desired,  stand  the  pots  on  a  bed  of  cocoa-nut  fibre,  or 
yL  * ji | 
* 
MESSRS.  PEED’S  GROUP  OP  HARDY  FLOWERS. 
(See  Report  of  National  Sweet  Pea  Society's  Show.) 
The  Cult  of  Culture. 
An  Advance  Chapter  from  my  next  “Garden  Book.” 
On  the  grass  yonder,  between  the  Apple  tree  and  the  Pansies  1 
see — but,  by  the  way,  dearest  reader,  have  I  told  you  about  the  sweet 
old  Apple  tree  ?  Ah  !  I  thought  not.  Well,  it  shall  have  a  nice, 
pretty  chapter,  all  to  itself  later  on.  Between  it  and  the  Pansies, 
which  I  sowed  myself  in  a  light  loam  early  in  April,  and  they  haven’t 
come  up  yet,  though  there  are  others  among  the  Potatoes  which  are 
tall  and  straggling,  like  this  sentence  ;  but  it’s  only  eleven  o’clock  on 
Monday  morning,  and  I  must  spin  out  this  morning’s  observations  into 
a  whole  chapter,  I  see,  as  I  said  before — what  do  you  think  ?  A 
fallen  leaf.  A  fallen  leaf.  Say  that  slowly  and  distinctly  twenty- 
seven  times,  and  if  the  poetry  of  it  all  doesn’t  sink  into  your  very  soul, 
I’m  sorry  for  you.  Alas  !  poor  leaf !  If  it  were  still  upon  the  tree  it 
would  not  lie  upon  the  dark,  damp  earth;  stirred  by  the  gentle  wind 
’twould  murmur  a  thousand  caressing  messages  to  its  little  brothers. 
Fate  willed  it  otherwise.  Ah !  complete,  ah !  mournful  parable  of 
life.  The  leaf  is  not  on  the  tree.  It  lies  upon  the  ground — lies 
between  the  tree  and  the  dear  Pansies  ;  forsaken,  desolate,  alone  !  The 
Apple  tree  is  on  its  right— dread  symbolism  ! — the  Pansy  border  on  its 
left.  The  leaf  is  on  the  ground. 
plunge  them  in  it,  and  keep  the  temperature  of  the  house  at  65°  to  70° 
At  least,  this  is  how  they  tell  one  to  grow  tuberous  Begonias,  and  the 
same  plan  ought  to  answer  for  Dandelions  and  Cauliflowers,  and  things 
of  that  sort. 
It  is  nearly  twelve  o’clock;  “noon,”  in  the  quaint  old  Anglo- 
Saxon  phrase.  A  sparrow  has  ju  t  hopped  across  the  Lettuces — a 
sweet  little  bird,  wbh  two  eyes,  two  feet,  and  one  beak.  But  the 
early  worm  left  some  hours  ago  on  pressing  business.  Ah  !  dearpst 
reader,  the  saddest  words  in  the  language.  Too  late!  Too  late!  Too 
late  !  Oh  !  the  bitterness  of  it  all ! 
But  I  must  be  brave.  I  must  water  the  Geraniums.  (Plant  out 
early  in  May,  in  a  south  aspect,  and  mulch  freely.)  Yes;  I  must 
water  the  Geraniums.  So  do  the  petty,  insistent  duties  of  life  break 
in  upon  our  most  spiritual  moods !  Yet  even  here  fr  sh  disappointment 
lurks,  envious,  malignant.  The  jump  is  out  of  order.  Besides,  there 
are  no  Geraniums  to  water.  The  cat  scratched  them  all  up  last  week. 
Now  it  is  nearly  lunch  time,  so  I  must  finish  off  this  chapter. 
Down  the  pleasant  path  I  stray,  among  the  Mignonette  and  Musk  and 
Marigolds.  Look  at  that  swift  swallow,  his  wings  sheening  in  the 
shine  of  the  sun  ! — but  lunch  is  ready.  Sit  still,  dear,  darling  readtr, 
sit  very  still ;  after  lunch  I’ll  come  and  talk  to  you  again. — A.  C.  D. 
(in  “  Punch.”) 
